OE  CALIF.  LIBRABY,  LOS  ANGELES 


A  STORY 

OF   A 


THE  MINOR  CHORD: 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIM  A  DONNA. 


BY 

J.  MITCHELL  CHAPPLE 


F.  TENNYSON  NEEIyY, 

CHICAGO.  Publisher :  NEW  YORK. 

1895. 


COPYRIGHT,  1895 

BY 
P.  TENNYSON  NEELY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  the  zenith  of  my  career  as  a  prima  donna  known 
to  multitudes,  I  am  alone.  The.  glare  of  the  footlights, 
the  plaudits  of  audiences  in  both  hemispheres,  the 
praise  of  critics,  the  tokens  of  esteem  and  adoration  of 
admirers — in  spite  of  it  all,  I  am  lonely ;  my  life  is  a 
minor  chord. 

How  empty  it  all  is  ! 

Not  long  ago,  a  poor  American  girl !  Now  it  seems 
as  if  there  was  nothing  left  to  wish  for,  yet  there  is 
everything.  No  friend  in  whom  I  can  confide  and  tell 
my  heart's  heart.  My  feelings  hare  overcome  me  to- 
night, and  I  undertake  a  long-dreamt-of  task. 

My  real  life  is  too  much  threaded  with  commonplace 
to  appear  romantic.  I  started  out  with  a  deception, 
and  now  the  real  truth  must  never  be  known  while 
my  stage  career  lasts.  No  friend  to  sympathize  with 
me !  Although  known  everywhere,  I  am  unknown, 
miserably  unknown  to  those  I  have  loved — loved  and 
lost. 

Authors  have  been  busy  for  ages  past  dissecting  and 
analyzing  a  woman's  heart,  in  poetry,  prose,  and  art ; 


2128799 


2  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

but  authors  mingle  with  their  fellow-beings  socially, 
and  there  is  a  great  something  always  reserved,  even 
from  them,  which  is  the  only  key  to  the  soul.  We 
keep  back  from  husbands,  fathers,  sweethearts,  that 
inexpressible  something  linked  with  the  '  I  am, '  and 
carry  it  with  us  to  the  grave.  My  life  has  steeled  me 
against  some  of  the  sublimest  emotions,  but  they 
smolder  still,  and  almost  flash  into  a  fire  heat  when  I 
catch  a  reflection  of  my  past  life.  I  must  express  it ! 

Pen  and  paper  are  my  confidants,  and  perhaps  when 
I  am  dead,  when  my  poor  voice  shall  have  joined  in 
the  songs  of  the  immortal  chorus,  the  critics  will  not 
be  so  harsh  in  their  judgment  of  poor  Minza.  Hush  ! 
How  strange  that  name  sounds ! 

I  make  no  apology  for  egotism.  I  know  my  powers, 
but  I  may  not  know  all  my  weaknesses,  and  this  is 
simply  a  communication  between  myself  and  my 
Maker.  How  trivial  and  infinitesimal  all  these  petty 
struggles  appear  when  one  feels  the  Divine  touch  ! 

My  manager  would  suggest  that  I  should  join  the 
Salvation  Army,  if  he  knew  that  in  the  quiet  of  this 
night  I  have  begun  to  pour  out  such  soul  secrets. 
His  theory  of  life  is  that  everything  should  startle 
and  attract,  and  a  poor,  homely,  honest  Christian 
faith  is  hardly  the  thing  for  an  opera  prima  donna. 

But  I  must  not  linger. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  AM  an  American,  and  I'm  proud  of  it,  although  I 
cannot  claim  a  classic  birthplace,  rich  in  historical 
associations.  In  fact,  I  believe  the  stage  biographer 
has  sadly,  but  innocently  perhaps,  deceived  the  public. 
All  this  deception,  and  why  ?  Not  because  of  any- 
thing to  blush  for — no ! 

On  the  banks  of  a  sluggish  creek,  in  the  miasma  of 
a  fever  and  ague  bottom  in  Iowa,  I'm  told  I  was  born. 
The  house  has  since  been  torn  down,  but  how  dear  to 
me  is  every  bit  of  that  prosaic  little  village!  The 
familiar  old  grist  mill,  with  its  lazy  water-wheel, 
where  farmers  brought  their  wheat  to  grind,  and  the 
dam  which  backed  up  the  water  of  the  creek  making 
it  a  large  shallow  lake  :  this  was  to  me  in  childhood 
as  great  as  an  ocean.  The  low  rolling  hills  opposite 
appeared  as  mountains  to  childish  fancy,  but  in  later 
years  the  landscape  seems  to  have  shrunken ;  the 
grove  of  oaks,  maples,  elms,  about  the  house  which  we 
used  to  love  so  well — we  gave  pet  names  from  our 
history  lessons  to  each  tree — all  were  loved  as  human 
beings,  and  only  'old  Napoleon'  the  walnut  tree 
remains  now  to  tell  the  story  of  childhood. 

My   early  years  were   uneventful.       Dear,    kind 

(3) 


4  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

father  was  a  good  man.  He  was  English,  and  emi- 
grated to  America  to  make  his  fortune,  and  had 
married  an  American  girl,  proud,  spirited,  and  beauti- 
ful, accomplished  in  music,  art,  and  householdry. 
They  settled  in  this  little  Iowa  village  to  'grow  up'  with 
the  town.  Father  dreamed  of  large  estates  as  in  the 
'old  country,'  for  there  is  nothing  an  Englishman  so 
dearly  loves  as  a  little  plot  of  ground  he  can  call  his 
own,  unless,  perhaps,  it  is  a  racehorse.  Father  was 
industrious  and  thrifty.  I  was  the  first-born,  and 
must  have  been  a  very  troublesome  baby,  and  mother 
used  to  say,  'There's  one  virtue  Minza  possesses — 
she's  never  idle.' 

She  left  me  alone  one  day  while  she  went  across 
the  way  to  help  a  neighbor  with  a  sick  child,  and  the 
dough-pan,  which  was  standing  by  the  stove,  full  of 
bread  dough,  mixed  and  ready  for  kneading  and  bak- 
ing, was  too  tempting  for  my  artistic  genius ;  and  on 
her  return  she  found  the  chairs,  bureau,  little  old 
piano,  and  'whatnot'  judiciously  plastered  with  the 
dough.  I  shall  never  forget  the  expression  on  her 
face.  I  remember  this  incident,  because  it  is  my  first 
memory  of  a  man  who  was  largely  responsible  in  form- 
ing my  career. 

Old  Dr.  Waddington  it  was  who  just  then  came  in 
and  saw  my  handiwork.  He  was  a  very  large,  stout 
man,  weighing  nearly  three  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
original  founder  of  the  village.  In  fact,  he  had  chris- 
tened it  'Smithville'  in  honor  of  his  former  home  in 
the  Eastern  States  American  towns,  as  a  rule,  do  not 
possess  particularly  expressive  and  characteristic  names 
for  they  grow  and  multiply  so  rapidly  that  it  is  rather 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  5 

difficult,  as  in  the  case  of  parents  with  a  large  family, 
to  find  names  enough  to  go  round. 

He  looked  at  me  a  minute,  and  said  to  mother: 

'  I  think  she  had  better  be  brought  down  to-morrow, 
as  I  have  sent  for  Dr.  Griffin  to  come  up.' 

I  remember  the  shudder  mother  gave,  and  how  she 
quickly  lifted  me  up  and  kissed  me. 

'  Will  it — what  do  you  think — Doctor,  is  there  any 
danger  ?' 

'  My  dear  Mrs.  Maxwell,  I  cannot  tell.  The  case 
is  very  puzzling:  but  I  have  great  faith  in  Dr.  Griffin, 
and  we  will  warn  you  in  time  should  dangerous  symp- 
toms show  themselves.' 

Those  were  his  words  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember. 
It  was  an  anxious  night,  and  father  did  not  go  to  his 
business  next  morning,  and  when  we  started  out  he 
carried  me  in  his  arms,  which  I  thought  unusually  kind 
of  him.  When  danger  threatens,  how  dearly  parents 
love  their  children!  He  hugged  me  tightly,  and 
mother  carried  wee  baby  Joe,  as  we  went  to  the  pho- 
tographer's; and  when  we  entered  the  dressing-room 
to  prepare  for  the  picture,  mother  burst  into  tears. 

'  O  Robert!  how  can  we  permit  it?' 

The  scene  was  like  that  of  a  funeral.  I  remember 
how  the  pretty  little  imitation  stumps  and  trees  for  the 
background  amused  me;  the  scenery  was  one  of  those 
primitive  daubs  that  are  to  be  found  in  nearly  all  pic- 
ture galleries  in  the  States. 

The  photographer  was  a  long  time  preparing  his 
plates,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  little  dark  room  as 
if  at  his  devotions.  I  was  placed  in  front  of  the  group, 
between  father  and  mother.  A  forked  iron  rack  was 


6  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

placed  at  the  back  of  my  head  to  hold  me  still.  The 
little  bald-headed  photographer  seemed  to  enjoy  div- 
ing in  and  out  from  under  the  black  cloth. 

Finally,  the  camera  artillery  was  ready.  With  a 
rattle-box  to  keep  baby  Joe  quiet,  and  with  his  watch 
in  the  other  hand,  and  the  scorching  sun  pouring 
down  upon  the  scenic  eftect  through  the  white  cloth, 
in  that  Iowa  country  photographer's  studio  my  first 
picture  was  taken.  My  hair  was  combed  back  smooth, 
and  held  by  an  arched  comb,  and  tied  with  a  blue  rib- 
bon behind.  Oh,  how  clearly  it  all  comes  back  to  me 
now,  as  I  sit  and  cry  over  that  old  faded  tin-type  ! 

After  the  picture  had  been  taken  I  was  carried  over 
to  the  little  old  red  office  of  Dr.  Waddington.  A  tall 
man  in  an  apron  and  spectacles  was  with  him.  He 
had  a  large  number  of  knives,  saws,  and  sharp  instru- 
ments spread  out  on  the  window-sill.  There  was  a 
long  narrow  table  in  the  center  of  the  room.  With  the 
ghastly  motion  of  an  executioner,  the  strange  man, 
pointed  to  the  table,  and  mother  began  to  cry.  Baby 
Joe  joined,  and  father's  eyes  were  filled.  He  sat  me 
down  gently.  They  all  kissed  me,  including  the  fat 
old  doctor.  I  still  felt  mother's  arms  about  me,  and  I 
was  not  afraid.  It  seemed  a  good  deal  of  fuss  to  make 
over  a  little  red-headed  girl.  A  few  minutes  later  I 
was  unconscious.  The  test  of  life  and  death  was  being 
made.  I  was  tongue-tied.  The  operation  was  to 
remove  a  dangerous  growth  in  my  throat,  the  throat 
and  voice  which  have  since  won  me  fame. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  operation  was  successful.  My  tongue  was  loosed, 
and  at  six  years  of  age  I  learned  to  talk.  What  hap- 
piness it  brought!  Dear  father  seemed  more  fond  of 
me  than  ever,  and  his  whole  life  centered  in  '  little  red- 
headed Meg.  ' 

He  was  a  country  merchant,  and  kept  a  general 
merchandise  store,  to  which  the  farmers  would  come 
every  Saturday  from  miles  round  to  obtain  needed  sup- 
plies in  exchange  for  their  butter  and  eggs  and  other 
produce.  How  well  I  remember  that  dear  old  place  I 
Its  very  odor  was  wholesome.  Every  factory  or  shop 
has  its  peculiar  atmosphere,  characteristic  only  of  that 
particular  branch  of  trade;  but  the  old  'store',  as  we 
called  it,  seemed  to  be  a  composite  of  everything,  from 
brown  sugar  and  green  cheese  to  molasses  and  strong- 
smelling  onions. 

As  it  was  the  largest  shop  in  the  village,  father  and 
mother  were  looked  upon  as  the  most  prominent  per- 
sons. Our  piano  was  about  the  only  one  in  the  ham- 
let, and  mother's  playing  and  singing  were  noted  far 
and  near;  indeed,  she  would  often  entertain  the  neigh- 
bors of  an  evening.  Part  of  her  religion  was  to  make 
others  happy. 

Another  baby  brother  came  about  a  year  after  that 

(7) 


8  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

first  family  group  was  taken.  I  took  charge  of  baby 
Jimmy,  as  we  named  him,  so  that  mother  might  give 
all  her  attention  to  little  Joe,  who  had  always  been 
sickly. 

It  was  in  those  days  that  mother  first  began  to 
instruct  me  in  music.  I  loved  it  then.  How  well  I 
remember  awaking  every  morning  with  mother  play- 
ing 'The  Maiden's  Prayer'  or  Schumann's  'Jolly 
Fanner  '  on  the  piano  !  These  two  selections  had  a 
history,  and  father  never  left  home  in  the  morning 
without  mother  playing  them.  He  was  not  a  musician, 
but  loved  music  even  more  passionately  than  do  some 
who  are  accomplished  in  the  art. 

These  were  happy  days;  and  as  father  used  to  sit 
and  smoke  his  pipe,  with  one  baby  on  each  knee  and 
his  red-headed  Meg  cosily  stowed  away  between,  and 
his  arm  about  dear  mother,  he  certainly  looked  the 
happiest  and  most  contented  mortal  on  earth.  It  was 
a  happy  family  picture  such  as  no  artist  has  ever  yet 
successfully  painted.  But  it  is  during  these  happy 
lulls  in  life  that  the  crash  comes. 

America  is  a  country  of  crashes  and  climaxes.  It  is 
a  new  country,  and  develops  more  rapidly  than  its 
financial  resources;  consequently,  its  history  is  well 
peppered  with  bubbles  and  panics.  It  was  during  one 
of  these  panics  that  my  father  failed  in  business.  Not 
through  any  fault  of  his  own;  but  he  had  endorsed  a 
bill  for  a  friend,  who  could  not  pay  it,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  do  so.  Coming  at  a  time  when  he  had  a 
large  amount  of  accounts  outstanding  and  securities 
upon  which  he  could  not  realize,  father  turned  over  to 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  9 

the  Shylock  creditors  all  his  property,  worth  many 
times  his  liabilities,  for  them  to  prey  upon  and  divide 
the  spoils. 

Never  can  I  forget  that  night  in  June  when  he 
came  home  to  tea,  but  could  not  eat.  With  a  deep 
yearning  gaze  he  looked  across  the  table  at  mother, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

'Helen,  I'm  ruined!'  he  cried. 

'  How  is  that,  Robert  ? '  said  mother  quietly,  going 
to  him  and  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck.  This 
was  her  favorite  way  of  asking  questions.  He  told 
her  the  story  in  detail  as  simply  as  a  little  child. 

'Still,  it  may  not  be  so  bad  after  all,  Robert.  I 
will  go  down  to  the  store  with  you  after  tea,  and  we 
will  see.' 

Mother  knew  nothing  of  business  matters,  but  was 
a  woman  for  emergencies.  There  was  no  further 
eating,  and  we  went  to  the  store.  It  was  after  closing 
hours,  and  the  curtains  had  been  drawn — upon  which 
my  father's  name  blazed  in  large  gilt  letters,  which 
seemed  now  like  a  mockery. 

Once  inside,  we  went  to  the  long  sloping  desk,  and 
there  mother  developed  hidden  powers.  The  little, 
shrinking,  timid  woman  seemed  to  comprehend  the 
situation  after  examining  the  books  and  accounts. 

'  Well,  Robert,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  wrong ;  but  they 
must  take  the  property. ' 

'  O  my  poor  wife  and  children  ! '  burst  out  father  in 
tears. 

'  Yes,  but  we  can  save  our  home ;  that  is  exempt,' 
replied  mother. 

'  But,  Helen,  is  that  honest  when — when ' 


IO  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'  Robert,  your  first  duty  is  to  yourself  and  family ; 
you  must  not  assume  that  all  men  are  as  honest  as  you 
are.  Robert,  I  say  we  will  refuse  to  give  up  our 
home. ' 

There  was  a  queenly  firmness  in  this.  The  light 
and  fire  in  her  eye  was  like  that  of  an  aroused  tigress 
defending  her  young. 

We  saved  the  home,  but  the  lawyers  soon  made 
sad  havoc  of  the  property.  The  '  assignee  sale '  only 
realized,  or  rather  was  reported  to  have  realized,  a 
small  fraction  of  its  real  value,  and  left  father  still  'one 
thousand  dollars'  in  debt. 

'  One  thousand  dollars ! '  I  dreamed  of  them  that 
night.  What  an  enormous  sum  it  seemed !  My  poor 
father !  His  face  grew  thin  and  he  began  to  stoop, 
and  I  would  have  given  my  life  to  have  secured  that 
one  thousand  dollars.  Could  I  sew?  Could  I  grow 
big  and  go  out  teaching?  But  how  long  it  would  take 
to  save  one  thousand  dollars  to  lift  the  pall  that  hung 
over  our  household !  I  wished  I  were  a  big  girl,  and 
could  marry  a  rich  man. 

But  something  must  be  done.  Father,  a  few  days 
ago  the  prosperous  village  merchant,  had  now  but  few 
friends  who  could  help  him. 

He  tried  to  find  work  as  a  builder — the  trade  he 
had  learnt  in  England ;  but  no  one  would  build  houses 
in  panic  times,  and  finally,  with  a  saw-buck  on  his 
shoulder,  this  noble  father,  this  true  Knight  of  Man- 
hood, sawed  a  neighbor's  wood-pile  to  buy  his  family 
flour. 

That  cord  of  wood  nearly  cost  father  his  life.  It 
was  a  cold,  rainy  day,  and  he  worked  in  his  shirt- 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIMA   DONNA.  II 

sleeves,  and,  not  being  accustomed  to  manual  labor, 
he  caught  a  heavy  cold.  I  had  been  with  him  to  help 
pile  up  the  wood  as  he  sawed  it.  We  had  retreated 
behind  a  hay-stack  from  public  view,  so  there  was  just 
a  bit  of  pride  left.  How  I  hated  everyone  then !  I 
really  believe  I  was  an  Anarchist  in  spirit. 

That  night  we  sat  alone  without  a  light. 

'  Helen,  what  can  we  do,  what  can  we  do?  appealed 
father,  with  that  soft,  beseeching  look  which  expressed 
so  much.  His  cough  was  growing  harder. 

'Something  will  come  to  us,  Robert,'  replied 
mother.  '  Never  mind ;  we  shall  live  somehow.  Be 
patient,  Robert,  be  patient.' 

As  is  often  the  case,  calamity  had  reversed  the 
position  of  the  two.  Mother  was  now  commander  of 
the  struggling  home-craft. 

She  went  to  the  piano,  and  played  softly  impromptu 
chords  as  she  used  to  play  them  on  the  little  wheezy 
church  organ,  then  'The  Maiden's  Prayer.'  After- 
wards she  started  to  sing  the  old  melody,  'Nellie 
Gray.'  How  sweet  and  soothing  it  was !  No  voice 
have  I  ever  heard  like  mother's.  In  the  middle  of  the 
third  verse  she  stopped  short. 

'I  delare  I've  forgotten  the  words,  Robert.' 

She  lighted  a  lamp  to  search  among  the  pile  of 
music  on  the  top  of  the  piano,  and  while  so  doing  she 
found  a  worn  piece  of  sheet  music.  It  was  Mendels- 
sohn's 'Wedding  March,'  and  she  started. 

'Robert,  we're  all  right!' 

The  sight  of  that  piece  of  music  had  brought  to 
mind  her  wedding,  and  a  wedding  present. 

'Robert,  I  have  property.' 


12  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'  What  can  it  be ?    You  never  told  me.' 

'I  never  told  you,  my  dear;  but  dear  father  gave 
me  a  deed  belonging  to  some  wild  land  in  the  western 
part  of  the  State  as  a  wedding  present.  I  have  the 
deed.' 

'But  you  have  never  paid  the  taxes.' 

'  I  know — not  for  several  years ;  and  the  land  may 
not  be  worth  much  ;  but  we  shall  see.' 

She  sat  down  at  once,  and  wrote  to  a  lawyer  in  the 
town  nearest  to  the  land.  We  all  studied  the  map  in 
my  little  School  Geography,  but  it  gave  us  little  idea 
of  its  value  or  location. 

We  waited  anxiously  for  a  reply ;  and  after  several 
days  it  arrived.  The  lawyer  gave  a  most  discouraging 
report  of  the  land,  saying  that  it  was  fifty  miles  from 
a  railroad,  and  that  it  had  been  sold  for  taxes,  and 
would  require  a  large  amount  of  money  to  redeem  it 
and  secure  a  clear  title;  also,  that  the  panic  had 
affected  that  section  very  much,  but  that  possibly  he 
might  clear  three  hundred  dollars  if  a  power  of  attor- 
ney were  sent  him  to  sell  it  at  once. 

A  family  consultation  was  held  over  our  frugal 
meal  of  bread  and  cheese  that  night.  Winter  was 
coming  on.  Something  must  be  done,  and  quickly. 

Three  hundred  dollars !  That  was  a  large  sum  of 
money. 

'  We  should  accept  it,  Robert, '  said  mother  at  last, 
after  long  reflection. 

That  settled  it. 

'  My  plan  is  to  re-invest  that  money  in  a  music  and 
book  shop  here  in  the  village,  and  I  will  teach  music 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  13 

In  order  to  sell  the  instruments.  That  is  what  we 
must  do,  Robert. ' 

'  My  dear  Helen,  with  your  babies  and  you  so  deli- 
cate in  health,  and ' 

'  Never  mind,  dear,  we  shall  manage  somehow; 
you  and  Meg  can  attend  the  store  and  the  household 
work,  and  I  will  teach. ' 

My  mother's  wedding  present  was  sold.  The  land 
proved,  ten  years  after,  to  be.  coal  land  worth  nearly  a 
million  dollars  when  the  railroad  reached  it,  and  it 
made  the  fortunes  of  several  men.  But  that  three 
hundred  dollars  invested  in  a  stock  of  violins,  guitars, 
strings,  trimmings,  sheet  music,  and  books,  was 
another  link  which  determined  my  career. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

were  soon  established  in  business.  Our  music 
and  book  shop  was  on  one  side  of  the  room  occupied 
by  the  village  post-office.  Mother  organized  a  music 
class,  and,  although  the  income  was  small,  through 
the  commissions  on  the  sale  of  an  occasional  piano  or  a 
violin  to  a  country-dance  fiddler  we  managed  to  live 
comfortably. 

But  we  were  poor,  and  that  thousand  dollars  still 
remained  unpaid,  and  father's  creditors  even  tried  to 
seize  the  little  business  which  gave  us  a  livelihood. 
However,  mother  was  too  shrewd  for  them.  She  had 
established  the  firm  name  of 'Maxwell  &  Co.,  '  with 
herself  as  principal  and  father  as  '  Co. '  This  baffled 
the  creditors;  but  it  worried  poor  father  as  being  dis- 
honest, and  he  began  to  fail.  The  dumb  ague  fastened 
its  grip  upon  him,  and  every  other  day  he  had  a 
'shake'  or  chill.  While  mother  was  out  teaching  he 
was  at  home  doing  the  housework,  washing,  ironing, 
cooking,  and  tending  Joe  ;  while  Jimmy  was  with  me 
at  the  little  store,  sucking  his  bottle  and  sleeping  in 
the  perambulator  behind  the  counter.  It  was  the 
confinement  to  the  house  that  told  on  father.  Men 
were  not  made  for  housekeepers. 

When  music  and  selling  musical  instruments 
d4) 


A  STORY  OP  A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  15 

became  our  means  of  livelihood  I  began  to  hate  it.  Why 
should  my  mother  have  to  earn  her  living  that  way  ? 
Other  girls  did  not  need  to  play  fiddles  and  amuse 
country  bumpkins  in  order  to  make  a  few  pence.  I 
grew  to  hate  music,  so  much  so  that  mother. found  it 
difficult  to  teach  me  the  rudiments.  Oh,  the  long 
dreary  five-finger  exercises  and  scales  !  I  was  so  proud 
when  she  permitted  me  to  play  the  little  '  Bee  March. ' 
That  seemed  more  like  music.  She  looked  after  me 
carefully,  and  would  not  allow  me  to  sing  in  the  school, 
which  I  thought  a  hardship ;  but  with  a  mother's 
intuition  she  realized  how  important  it  was  to  train  a 
voice  when  yonng,  and  to-day  I  do  not  believe  my 
natural  voice  was  anything  extraordinary,  but  that 
mother's  care  had  much  to  do  with  giving  me  the 
strength  to  endure  the  severe  discipline  of  after  years. 
For  some  years  mother  had  given  her  services  as 
organist  in  the  Methodist  Church,  towards  the  con- 
struction of  which  father  had  contributed  one  thousand 
dollars..  I  confess,  as  I  sat  in  the  choir,  just  behind  the 
dear  old  minister,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  I  often  thought 
I  would  like  to  tear  out  that  thousand  dollars  from  those 
dingy  walls.  But  to  me  that  dear  old  church  has  ten- 
der recollections :  a  tall,  slender  spire,  adorned  by  a 
lightning  rod  ;  green  blinds  about  the  square  cupola, 
out  from  which  the  rich  tone  of  the  bell  resounded  ; 
the  old  gray  haired  sexton,  who  used  to  let  me  hold  the 
rope  while  it  raised  me  toward  the  roof;  the  small 
class-room  just  off  the  main  entrance  ;  on  the  other 
side,  the  stairs  to  the  gallery,  where  we  children  used 
to  play  when  the  '  mite  socials  '  were  held — the  cheer- 
ful savor  of  coffee  and  sandwiches  comes  back  to  me 


16  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

now.  The  interior  was  painted  a  light  but  dismal 
brown.  The  windows  were  imitations  of  old  Norman 
arches  with  eyebrow  arches  of  a  deeper  brown  just 
above.  The  pews  were  plain,  and  the  old  and  deaf 
people  of  the  congregation  used  to  occupy  those  in 
front,  while  the  tittering  and  sniggering  youngsters 
cluster  in  the  rear.  It  was  on  a  hot  Communion  Sun- 
day in  June  that  the  first  link  in  my  musical  career 
was  forged.  All  strangers  were  exhorted  to  join  in 
this  service.  Father  and  mother  were  kneeling,  and  I 
was  left  at  the  organ  to  sing  a  verse  each  time,  as  the 
people  came  forward  and  knelt  about  the  pulpit  plat- 
form. 

Alone  I  sang — 

'Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea, 
But  that  Thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  Thou  bidd'st  me  come  to  Thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come.' 

When  I  saw  father  and  mother  kneeling  together 
at  that  table,  and  remembered  that  they  had  never 
attended  a  class  or  prayer  meeting,  or  had  family  pray- 
ers at  home,  it  thrilled  me. 

To  this  day  I  have  never  taken  Communion  publicly, 
but  on  that  Sunday,  I  think  I  closed  my  eyes  and  sang 
straight  to  God  in  soul  communion. 

The  last  '  I  come '  was  fading  away,  and  I  was 
almost  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  others.  I  opened 
my  eyes  suddenly,  and  saw  two  blue  eyes,  raised  above 
the  altar  rail,  which  met  mine.  I  started  and  gasped 
aloud.  The  minister  turned  about  quickly  and  looked 
over  his  spectacles;  the  service  stopped.  Mother  and 
father  started  towards  me,  thinking  I  was  ill.  I  blushed 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  17 

a  deep  red,  made  deeper  by  the  sunshine  pouring 
through  the  stained-glass  windows.  I  had  made  a 
scene  in  church.  The  owner  of  those  blue  eyes  was  a 
stranger.  He  was  evidently  a  commercial  traveler, 
and  was  staying  at  Francis's  Hotel.  I  was  only  a 
homely  little  red-headed  girl,  and  it  was  rather  unusual 
for  me  to  attract  an  admiring  glance. 

I  confess  I  fell  in  love ;  but  those  blue  eyes  fascin- 
ated me.  Of  course  it  was  silly  in  a  girl  of  nine  years, 
but  there  was  a  touch  of  affinity  in  that  glance  that  I 
cannot  explain.  I  did  not  become  acquainted  with 
him  that  day,  but  I  found  out  secretly  that  he  came 
from  the  big  city  of  Boston,  far,  far  away  from  Iowa. 
The  church  music  of  the  period  was  rather  peculiar. 
Mother  loved  a  solemn,  rich  harmony  that  expresses 
reverence  and  adoration,  such  as  is  used  in  the  Eng- 
lish Church  service;  but  in  every  church,  in  every 
society,  religious  or  civic,  no  matter  whether  great  or 
small,  there  is  sure  to  be  a  quarrel  among  factions  at 
one  time  or  another. 

Mother's  taste  was  questioned  by  some  of  the  ladies 
whom  she  had  been  teaching.  The  flashy  gospel 
hymns,  with  their  bumpty-bump,  three-chord  jiggy 
airs,  had  turned  their  heads. 

'They  be  so  truly  passionate, '  wailed  old  spinster 
Brown ;  'and  express  real  great  music, '  she  continued, 
wringing  her  hands. 

Mother  had  given  her  a  scolding  at  her  last  lesson 
for  not  learning  the  five-finger  exercises  properly,  as 
she  would  persist  in  playing  with  her  thumbs,  one 
note  at  a  time. 

It  was  a  storm  in  a  teacup,  to  be  sure.     Mother 


18  THE  MINOR    CHORD. 

was  firm,  and  would  tolerate  no  nonsense.  The  kind 
old  minister  sided  with  mother,  but  the  majority  of 
the  congregation  followed  Squire  Bumps,  the  leading 
trustee,  who  had  become  wealthy  by  foreclosing 
mortgages  on  poor  people,  and  prayed  and  roared  like 
a  mad  bull  in  class  meeting  for  forgiveness  of  his 
sins. 

To  me  he  was  a  hypocrite,  and  he  certainly  wanted 
his  daughter  Grace  to  sing  in'my  place. 

The  final  result  was  that  mother  was  asked  to 
resign  her  thankless  task,  and  we  walked  out  of  the 
church  the  following  Sunday  with  suppressed  sobs — 
out  of  the  church  my  father  had  almost  built ;  a 
church  that  held  in  its  walls  enough  to  relieve  him 
from  debt ;  a  church  for  which  he  had  given  time  and 
energy  in  prosperity — but  from  which  he  was  driven 
out  in  adversity. 

Do  you  wonder  at  the  opposition  offered  to  Church 
work?  Too  often  it  is  used  in  the  interests  of  social 
and  financial  cliques,  and  true  worship  is  forgotten. 

'Well,  the  Kingdom  of  God  is  big  enough  for 
us  all,'  said  mother,  as  we  sat  down  to  dinner  that 
day. 

In  spite  of  this  galling  incident,  I  thank  Heaven  I 
never  lost  a  pure  and  simple  faith  in  God.  It  is  true  I 
cannot  fathom  theological  dogma,  but  hovering  about 
me  always  is  the  Great  and  Good  God  to  whom  I 
pray.  My  theological  belief  may  be  accounted  heret- 
ical by  some,  but  it  is  simple  faith,  and  a  personal 
belief  that  concerns  only  my  Maker  and  myself. 

For  a  time  after  the  crushing  affair  at  the  church, 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIMA   DONNA.  19 

we  thought  of  leaving  the  town  altogether,  but 
plucky  mother  insisted  : 

'No,  we  will  yet  see  the  turn  of  the  tide.' 

It  did  not  take  long,  either. 

The  shop  business  was  poor,  though  mother's 
energy  had  made  her  successful  as  a  teacher;  but 
success  always  brings  its  penalty  in  the  way  of 
jealousy  and  envy.  It  was  thought  she  was  using  her 
position  as  organist  in  church  to  secure  more  scholars; 
but  they  drew  closer  to  her  with  unswerving  loyalty, 
and  the  class  kept  on  increasing  until  she  began  to 
stagger  under  the  strain. 

Father  insisted  that  he  would  starve  rather  than 
let  her  keep  on  without  a  rest,  and  a  serious  consulta- 
tion was  held,  at  which  he  suggested  a  concert  to  close 
the  term — something  that  would  be  a  substitute  for 
the  Sunday-school  concerts  which  had  been  given  at 
the  church,  under  mother's  direction,  once  every 
month. 

The  new  organist  at  the  church  had  tried  the  con- 
certs and  failed.  Then  mother  commenced  planning 
for  the  recital.  It  was  very  elaborate  and  bold  in 
conception,  considering  the  material  she  had  to  deal 
with.  Bless  her  heart  !  she  was  so  magnetic.  It  was 
from  this  first  recital  that  I  drifted  into  a  stage  career. 

The  Town  Hall  was  generously  lent  to  her ;  an 
impromptu  stage  was  built,  and  bed  linen  was  brought 
into  requisition  for  curtains.  All  day  long  father  was 
at  work  filling  an  array  of  bottles  with  a  red  fluid,  to 
furnish  the  red  lights  by  placing  lamps  behind  them. 

How  I  hated  that  first  concert  1  My  mother  and 
father  in  the  show  business !  It  stung  my  pride.  The 


20  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

rehearsals  went  on  actively,  and  mother  concentrated 
every  energy  upon  the  preparations.  She  understood 
human  nature,  and  so  assigned  the  various  parts  as  to 
help  on  the  work.  Hours  and  hours  she  spent  drill- 
ing me  in  Leonora's  arias  from  Verdi's  '  Trovatore.'  I 
was  locked  in  a  room  to  practice  the  violin,  as  I  was 
to  shine  as  a  veritable  prodigy  in  music.  Oh,  how 
heartsick  I  was  as  the  date  approached !  Could  it  not 
be  postponed?  Could  I  hide?  There  was  only  one 
thing  that  held  me  close  to  duty.  My  red-headed 
nature  asserted  itself.  If  my  mother  was  in  the  'show 
business, '  and  if  my  father  did  attend  to  the  babies  and 
wash  dishes  and  was  called  'Poor  Hen-pecked  Bob,' 
the  Sunday-school  concert  should  be  outdone. 

All  great  works  are  achieved  through  rivalry.  We 
must  make  some  effort  in  order  to  learn  our  own 
strength. 

And  so  I  made  my  real  debut. 


CHAPTER  V. 

NEVER  can  I  forget  that  first  recital.  It  was  a  few 
days  past  my  tenth  birthday.  The  hour  for  beginning 
was  eight  o'clock,  but,  as  is  usual  with  home  enter- 
tainments, it  was  well  past  nine  o'clock  when  the  cur- 
tain sheets  were  drawn  aside. 

Father  stood  at  the  door  taking  the  money  for 
admission.  Beside  him,  on  a  buffalo  robe,  were  the 
two  babies,  Joe  and  Jim,  in  their  new  white  dresses. 
I  had  shrunk  out  of  sight  from  some  of  the  schoolboy 
chums,  who,  I  was  afraid,  would  jeer  me.  Father 
wore  a  paper  dicky  over  a  rough  flannel  shirt,  and 
looked  quite  a  gentleman  with  one  of  mother's  blue 
ribbons  for  a  necktie.  He  had  dressed  me  before  tak- 
ing his  station  at  the  door,  carefully  curling  my  red 
hair  and  trying  to  powder  away  some  of  the  freckles. 

'  On  you,  my  precious  little  sweetheart,  it  all 
depends, '  he  said,  kissing  me,  with  moist  eyes. 

There  was  not  a  very  large  attendance,  but  Squire 
Bumps'  family,  and  the  Blixons,  and  all  the  enemy  in 
the  church  quarrel,  turned  out  in  full  force.  I  fancied 
I  saw  knives  and  blades  under  their  skirts.  Grace 
Bumps,  who  had  taken  my  place  in  the  church  choir, 
swept  by  me  with  a  supercilious  air  which  stung  me ; 

(21) 


22  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

and  then,  how  glad  I  was  the  concert  was  to  be  given  1 
My  natural  ire  was  roused. 

Cool  and  collected  behind  those  improvised  cur- 
tains, which  revealed  to  the  audience  pantomimic 
shadows  of  those  who  took  part,  was  mother.  Clad  in 
a  simple  muslin  dress,  lowered  just  a  trifle  at  the  neck, 
with  flowers  at  her  throat  and  in  her  hair,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  had  never  before  seen  my  mother  so  beau- 
tiful. Her  dark  blue  eyes  were  flashing  with  excite- 
ment. Two  tall,  gawky  country  boys  stood  at  each 
side  of  the  centre  curtains  to  pull  them  aside. 

What  a  breathless  moment  of  suspense  it  was  just 
before  mother  gave  the  signal  !  The  young  lads,  who 
were  admitted  free  as  ushers,  were  stationed  in  different 
parts  of  the  room.  They  turned  down  the  lamps  at 
the  signal.  The  lights  behind  the  red  bottles  were 
turned  on  by  father  in  the  rear  of  the  room,  and  then, 
in  the  hush  of  darkness,  the  soft  strains  of  '  Swanee 
River '  were  sung  without  instrumental  accompani- 
ment by  the  chorus  behind  the  scenes. 

The  effect  was  thrilling.  Mother's  clear,  beautiful 
voice  led  the  chorus  of  boys  and  girls.  It  was  some- 
thing unexpected,  and  that  always  pleases. 

The  last  strains  of  the  plaintive  plantation  melody 
had  scarcely  died  away  when,  prompt  on  the  tap  of  the 
bell,  two  of  the  most  advanced  pupils  dashed  into  the 
piano  duet '  Poet  and  Peasant,  '  with  mother  standing 
over  them  to  turn  the  music  and  count  the  time — one, 
two,  three,  four — in  a  soft  undertone.  Of  course  that 
music  is  now  out  of  date.  Musical  taste  varies  with 
each  generation;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  no  orchestra- 
tion ever  gave  such  a  finished  conception  as  that  sim- 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  23 

pie  piano  duet — every  retard  and  crescendo  given  with 
precision.  How  I  pity  the  millions  of  young  girls 
nowadays  who  spend  years  and  years  of  hard  study  on 
the  pianoforte — and  every  girl  must  play  the  piano ! 
When  an  amateur  piano  selection  is  announced  on  a 
concert  programme  there  is  a  suppressed  yawn  floating 
over  the  audience.  Piano-playing  is  so  common,  and  in 
these  days  it  is  more  of  finger  gymnastics  than  a  feel- 
ing and  soulful  interpretation  of  music.  A  collocation 
of  sounds  is  not  real  music — there  must  be  a  soul-fire 
at  the  back  of  it. 

My  heart  fluttered  when  the  accelerando  of  the  last 
measures  in  that  duet  was  reached,  and  the  crash  chords 
and  explosive  octaves  were  struck,  which  is  the  con- 
ventional method  of  concluding  a  piano  selection.  I 
was  next  on  the  programme,  and  gently  picked  for  the 
last  time  the  A  and  E  strings  to  see  if  my  violin  was 
in  tune.  The  sea  of  faces  and  light  before  me  was 
confusing.  Not  a  feature  did  I  recognize. 

'  Keep  cool  and  go  slowly, '  whispered  mother,  as 
she  played  the  introduction  to  Mendelssohn's  '  Conso- 
lation. ' 

I  drew  the  bow  for  the  first  phrase  with  my  fingers 
giving  every  note  a  terrible  shake  and  tremolo.  After 
the  first  full  down-bow,  I  felt  the  passion  of  the  music 
—forgot  those  in  front — and  half  closed  my  eyes.  It 
is  a  simple  piece;  my  fourth  finger  was  usually  awk- 
ward, but  now  it  seemed  as  free  and  unconscious  as 
breath  itself,  so  that  I  put  all  my  soul  into  the  bow- 
ing. The  last  phrase,  which  expresses  the  whole 
piece,  and  is  Mendelssohn's  favorite  musical  expres- 
sion, died  away  under  a  light  bow  slowly  drawn,  until 


24  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

the  tone  almost  faded  into  the  breathless  silence  of  the 
room. 

I  sat  down  without  a  ripple  of  applause,  and  I  felt 
crushed  as  I  walked  behind  the  sheet  curtain.  Mother 
rushed  in  and  kissed  me  passionately. 

'  O  my  darling  little  Meg  I  so  beautiful — so  touch- 
ing ! '  She  kissed  me  over  and  over  again,  and  the 
programme  stopped  for  a  moment.  What  a  light  heart 
those  kisses  gave  me  !  It  pleased  mother,  it  was  she 
for  whom  I  played.  Our  greatest  achievements  are 
not  to  please  the  world,  but  that  little  circle  we  love. 
In  after  years  I  very  often  find  myself  straining  every 
nerve  to  please  one  person  in  the  audience,  and  when  I 
feel  the  response  after  my  first  tones  I  am  satisfied — 
no  matter  what  the  applause  may  be,  or  what  critics 
may  say. 

The  next  number  was  '  The  Storm,  '  which,  with 
its  vivid  mimicry  and  Alpine  song,  mother  played  on 
the  piano,  and  it  created  a  wild  outburst  of  applause. 
It  was  brilliant,  and  just  the  thing  to  suit  a  country 
audience. 

'  By  jinks,  I  thought  the  rain  war  a-comin'  on  the 
roof ! '  whispered  one  large,  lank  farm-hand,  as  he 
squirted  tobacco  juice  in  the  corner.  Mother  had  cap- 
tured the  audience.  My  next  piece  was  a  vocal  solo, 
the  aria  '  Ah  !  I  have  sighed  to  rest  me  ! '  from 
'  Trovatore. '  Mother  had  an  impromptu  orchestra 
arranged,  which  she  had  been  rehearsing  for  weeks. 
The  red-headed  cornetist  and  country-dance  fiddler, 
Jack  Robins,  were  playing  their  parts  more  by  ear 
than  note.  The  orchestra  score  differed  somewhat 
from  the  vocal  part.  The  first  note  I  shaded 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  25 

with  a  full  robust  chest  tone,  soft  and  sustained, 
which  I  have  always  loved  since,  and  which  is 
considered  one  of  my  greatest  powers  as  a  singer. 
The  bass  viol  missed  several  changes,  but  hastily 
corrected  himself.  It  started  out  well.  I  felt  that 
responsive  approval  from  the  sea  of  faces  in  front,  but 
in  the  second  part,  when  I  was  growing  most  passion- 
ate— a  sort  of  childish  mimic  passion  taught  me  by 
mother — the  poor  red  cornetist  came  in  on  the  wrong 
measure,  and  the  confusion  quite  upset  the  entire 
orchestra.  The  fiddler  squeaked,  the  bass  lost  his 
place,  and  it  ended  in  a  crash — a  break-down  !  I 
caught  mother's  flashing  eye.  There  was  a  titter 
about  the  room.  Quickly  mother  motioned  the 
orchestra  to  cease,  and  striking  in  on  the  introduc- 
tion with  that  firm  passionate  touch  which  inspires, 
she  said  in  an  undertone  : 
'Begin  over  again.' 

I  did  so — only  mother  and  I.  The  failure  nerved 
me  with  stronger  power.  The  song  was  finished  and 
the  applause  was  deafening,  the  audience  appreciating 
mother's  pluck  more  than  they  did  the  song,  and  we 
were  encored  several  times. 

Squire  Bumps  and  his  wife  arose  and  left  just  then, 
as  if  to  mortify  father  at  the  door. 

The  concert  concluded  in  a  blaze  of  triumph  with 
the  Hallelujah  Chorus  '  from  Handel's  '  Messiah.' 

After  the  programme  the  mothers  came  forward  for 
their  little  girls  who  had  taken  part  in  it,  and  mother 
was  overwhelmed  with  congratulations.  There  is  a 
sort  of  air  about  after  the  performance  that  throws  a 
glare  over  the  performer  which  interests  the  audience. 


26  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

Mother  had  vanquished  her  rival ;  and  the  Sunday- 
school  concerts  were  laid  low. 

It  was  the  old  Squire  who  remarked  a  few  days 
afterwards : 

'Wai,  I  told  you  that  woman  was  a-leadin'  our 
church  into  theatrical  temptations.  See  that  concert 
— a  disgrace,  sir!  Full  of  jig  songs  and  evil  ways.  No, 
sir,  keep  our  sanctuary  pure.' 

After  the  concert,  we  picked  up  little  Joe  and  baby 
Jim,  who  were  asleep,  and  carried  them  home. 

'  Robert,  I  am  proud  of  Meg,'  mother  said. 

'  My  own  little  sunbeam  ! '  said  father,  taking  me 
on  his  shoulder. 

The  evening's  events  were  talked  over  at  the  fire- 
side until  past  midnight.  Even  after  we  retired  I 
heard  mother  and  father  still  talking  it  over.  Little 
Jim  hugged  closer  to  nie.  It  all  seemed  like  a  dream, 
and  the  echoes  of  the  music  rang  in  my  ears. 

'Fred  Burroughes  was  there  to-night,' said  father 
softly. 

I  had  not  seen  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AFTER  the  first  concert  the  reputation  of  mother  as  a 
music  teacher  was  established. 

Father's  health  did  not  improve,  and  old  Dr.  Wad- 
dington  shook  his  head  and  said  he  must  leave  the 
ague  district.  This  required  money,  and  the  thousand 
dollars  of  debt  seemed  as  large  as  ever.  Mother 
struggled  on  with  her  lessons. 

'One — two — three — four.  '  I  can  see  her  yet  in  the 
old  parlor  at  the  side  of  a  scholar,  going  through 
hours  and  hours  of  drudgery  in  teaching  for  a  liveli- 
hood. 

On  a  cool  October  day  at  noon  I  was  near  the  old 
brick  school-house,  standing  under  the  tall  cotton- 
wood  trees.  The  children  were  playing  among  the 
rustling  sea  of  fallen  leaves.  The  trees  were  shed- 
ding their  flakes  of  snowy  fur  ;  the  air  was  laden  with 
shouts  of  childish  merriment,  with  now  and  then  an 
unearthly  Indian  yell :  children  without  noise  arc  not 
children.  It  was  one  of  those  perfect  autumn  days  to 
which  a  memory  of  past  events  will  so  easily  fix 
itself. 

From  across  the  road  came  a  form  I  knew  well, 
although  I  had  never  spoken  a  word  to  him. 

(27) 


28  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'This  is  Minza  Maxwell,  I  know,  '  he  said  softly, 
and  his  clear  blue  eyes  made  me  blush  furiously.  The 
girls  all  looked  at  us  in  shy  wonderment. 

'Yes,  sir,  that's  me,"  I  replied,  walking  apart  from 
the  other  girls. 

'Well,  Minza,  I  want  you  to  become  a  great 
singer.' 

It  was  rather  abrupt. 

'  What  am  I  to  do  ? '  I  asked  coyly,  hardly  daring 
to  look  up  into  his  face. 

'  Your  father  is  going  to  Boston  with  me  on  busi- 
ness, and  will  be  gone  three  months.  You  must  go 
with  him  and  study  music.' 

It  seems  that  it  had  all  been  arranged  at  home,  and 
was  no  news  to  them  when  I  arrived.  Father  was 
being  sent  away  by  his  brother  Masons  for  his  health, 
and  I  was  to  look  after  him,  and  Mr.  Burroughes  had 
arranged  for  the  music  lessons  in  Boston. 

Have  you  ever  been  at  the  first  home-breaking  of  a 
little  family?  Now  that  we  were  going,  it  brought 
back  the  memories  recalled  by  that  little  photograph 
group  of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  Like  Cinder- 
ella, I  had  dreamed  of  a  handsome  rich  lover  to  pay 
that  thousand  dollars  debt.  My  first  love  was  Fred 
Burroughes.  Although  I  was  a  little  girl  and  he 
quite  a  young  man,  gratitude  filled  my  heart  with  the 
deepest  admiration  for  the  blue-eyed  commercial  trav- 
eler whom  I  had  first  seen  over  the  altar-rail  at  Com- 
munion service  in  the  little  brown  church. 

I  had  a  loving  girl  companion.  Angela  Gooding 
lived  across  the  road,  and  a  pretty  little  thing  she  was. 
True,  we  had  our  little  quarrels  when  out  berrying  or 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  29 

<*• 

picking  up  hickory  nuts,  or  playing  in  the  sandpile 
under  the  old  maples,  or  swinging  in  the  cherry  trees 
near  the  old  red  barn.  But  yet  we  loved  each  other. 
Our  secrets  were  as  one.  We  make  our  truest  friends 
in  childhood,  because  a  child  makes  friends  from  dis- 
interested motives. 

The  night  before  I  was  to  leave,  Angela  and  I 
wandered  down  to  the  old  deserted  limekiln,  where  we 
had  spent  so  many  happy  days  together,  and  built 
fairy  castles  in  the  air.  I  said  good-bye  and  kissed 
even  the  large  flat  old  stones  where  we  used  to  sit  and 
watch  the  stars.  It  was  here,  with  the  shadows  of 
the  afternoon  sun  playing  through  the  leaves  of  the 
old  walnut  tree,  that  Angela  and  I  had  read  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  novels  and  thought  of  the  tumbled 
stones  of  the  kiln  as  ancient  ruins. 

We  cried  because  we  thought  that  perhaps  we 
should  never  be  together  again.  We  plighted  our 
eternal  friendship  with  rings  made  of  withered  blades 
of  grass.  The  hidden  hemp  fish-poles  were  brought 
out  and  put  away  again,  and  over  the  wire  fence 
Farmer  Brown's  muley  cow  'Spotty'  looked  pensively 
as  if  for  a  good-bye  kiss. 

In  the  house  I  threw  off  my  jacket  and  cried  as 
mother  asked  me  to  try  on  a  new  coat  with  shining 
buttons.  In  our  poverty,  mother  had  made  my  jackets 
out  of  father's  faded  and  worn-out  coats,  and  dyed 
them  in  logwood.  The  black  persisted  in  wearing  off 
on  my  neck,  and  the  boys  used  to  plague  me  with  cries 
of  'Charcoal  Meg.'  Howl  hated  that  name  1  But 
Angela  never  plagued  me.  I  longed  for  the  time  to 
throw  that  jacket  away,  for  even  a  homely  girl  loves 


30  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

to  appear  pretty.  But  now,  when  I  could  abandon  it, 
how  dear  it  seemed ! 

'Mamma,  let  me  stay,  and  you  go  with  papa,'  I 
remember  pleading. 

'No,  a  little  girl  of  mine  could  hardly  do  that,' 
softly  said  mamma.  'You  go  with  papa  and  study 
hard,  and  then  you  will  be  someone  some  day  and  not 
have  to  endure  poverty.  Be  somebody,  Minza ! ' 

She  kissed  me  again.  She  was  not  an  effusive 
mother;  her  kisses  were  few,  but  always  appropriate. 
She  did  not  humor  me  by  waiting  on  my  every  wish 
or  tucking  me  in  bed,  with  the  other  usual  incidents 
of  expressing  a  mother's  love,  but  taught  me  self- 
reliance  and  breathed  in  me  an  ambition  that  I  could 
not  quench. 

It  was  a  sad  night.  Nearly  all  night  I  lay  crying. 
The  rain  fell  in  torrents ;  I  was  afraid  of  the  deluge 
which  we  had  read  about  in  our  last  Sunday-school 
lesson,  and  rushed  into  mother's  room  in  a  fright.  I 
soon  fell  asleep  when  father's  arms  were  about  me.  I 
dreamed  that  I  should  never  see  little  Joe  and  baby 
Jim  again.  How  cruel,  I  thought,  to  drive  me  away 
now! 

The  next  day  was  a  busy  one  with  packing.  The 
train  left  at  midnight.  We  tried  to  spend  a  cheerful 
evening,  and  Angela  was  allowed  to  stay  up  with  me. 
The  hour  of  twelve  seemed  to  come  too  quickly.  The 
'bus  rattled  to  the  door  with  its  dingy  light  in  front. 
Once  more  I  broke  out,  'I  will,  not  go.  Mamma — 
mamma,  I  cannot  leave  you  and  the  babies. ' 

'Come,  Minza  dear,  mamma  will  be  all  right. 
That's  a  good  girl,  take  care  of  papa  and  be  some- 


A  STORY  OP  A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  3! 

body,  Minza,  be  somebody  ! '  She  kissed  me  good-bye 
as  only  a  mother  can.  Father  hugged  me  close  to  him, 
We  were  off  to  Boston.  It  seemed  like  an  exile  to 
Siberia. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THAT  journey  was  before  the  days  of  through  train 
service  such  as  we  have  in  America  now.  It  was 
change  cars  often,  and  change  roads  oftener,  and  long 
waits  for  connections.  At  one  junction  I  read  all  the 
placards  several  times  sideways  and  upside  down. 

When  we  reached  Chicago  all  was  bustle.  The 
trip  already  seemed  to  put  new  life  into  father.  It 
was  his  day  for  an  ague  chill  and  he  missed  it. 

The  State  Street  cable  cars,  gliding  along  without 
any  horses  or  engines,  were  the  first  things  to  attract 
my  attention.  The  beautiful  waves  of  Lake  Michigan 
were  dancing  in  the  morning  sunlight.  The  dome  of 
the  old  Exposition  building,  since  then  removed,  was 
awe-inspiring.  The  trains  shooting  along  the  lake 
front,  with  their  wide  funnel  smoke  stacks,  seemed 
like  busy  messengers  from  another  world.  There  was 
a  wild  rushing  air  of  business  only  known  in  Chicago. 

On  to  Boston  we  journeyed.  We  could  not  afford 
sleeping  cars,  and  father  arranged  a  bed  for  me  on  the 
seats,  but  did  not  sleep  himself.  The  nearer  we 
approached  Boston,  the  straighter  the  people  sat  in 
their  seats;  for  the  pretty  little  crooked  streets  of 
Boston  have,  to  all  Americans,  a  classic  fascination. 
They  are  about  the  only  evidences  we  have  left  of 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  33 

European  settlement  in  America.  The  grand  old 
Boston  commons,  with  the  towering  elms,  brought 
before  me  visions  of  the  Revolutionary  war,  which  I 
had  been  reading  over  in  my  school  history. 

We  traveled  across  the  ferry  to  Cambridge,  passed 
the  old  Washington  elm  and  I/mgfellow's  beautiful 
home,  buried  in  the  trees,  and  stopped  at  a  low,  nar- 
row grey  house  with  green  blinds  and  an  enormous 
brass  knocker,  which  was  to  me  quite  an  object  of 
curiosity. 

A  tall,  kindly-looking  lady  with  a  long  face,  which 
struck  my  childish  fancy  as  looking  like  our  old  horse 
at  home,  came  to  the  door. 

'Miss  Paxton,  I  believe?'  said  my  father. 

'  Yes,  sir  ;  and  this  is  Mr.  Maxwell,  I  believe;  and 
is  this  Minza  ?  Come  here,  my  dear. ' 

She  was  evidently  a  spinster,  and  tried  to  look  very 
kind  and  pleasant,  but  she  was  not  a  mother.  Only  a 
mother  can  win  a  child  at  once.  She  untied  the 
strings  of  my  hood. 

1  Yes,  this  is  Helen's  only  daughter,  and  she ' 

'  Oh,  you  know  mamma  ! '  I  broke  in.  Kven  an  asso- 
ciation of  acquaintance  inspires  confidence,  and  I 
came  closer  to  her. 

'Yes,  my  dear,  I  knew  your  mamma  when  she  was 
a  little  girl  like  you.' 

'  Yes,  it  was  hard  for  Helen,  but  she  has  great 
hopes  of  Minza,'  continued  father. 

'I  dare  sa}^.' 

'  Now  I  must  be  going.  Minza,  be  a  good  girl  and 
mind  Miss  Paxton.  Good-bye,  dear.' 

He  kissed  me  tenderly,  and  I  broke  out  in  rebellion. 


34  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

'I  will  not  stay  !  Mamma  said  I  was  to  go  with  papa.' 

'But  I  shall  come  back,  dear.' 

I  again  had  a  good  cry ;  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 
world  were  against  me.  An  exile  from  home — alone 
with  strangers  ! 

A  few  days  after,  I  began  my  lessons.  The  Pro- 
fessor was  a  big,  kind-looking  man,  with  hazel 
whiskers,  and  I  used  to  think  what  a  nice  place  it 
would  be  for  the  sparrows  to  nest  in.  I  soon  learned 
to  like  Professor  Windermere,  although  he  never  con- 
sidered me  a  promising  pupil.  He  was  a  prudent 
teacher,  and  my  vocal  exercises  were  given  with 
experienced  care.  Oh,  how  long  those  scales  seemed, 
going  uphill  and  down,  breathing  like  a  machine  ! 
How  I  would  stop  and  cry,  thinking  of  mother  and  the 
babies  at  home !  How  I  envied  the  little  girls  in  the 
streets  selling  papers  and  matches  !  They  were  free, 
with  no  scales  to  practice.  No  songs  could  I  sing, 
although  my  heart  was  hungry  for  melody.  Miss 
Paxton's  keen  but  kind  eye  seemed  upon  me  night 
and  day.  As  the  days  wore  on  I  became  more 
reconciled,  but  my  thoughts  were  always  away  in  that 
little  Iowa  town.  We  feel  more  at  home  as  we  become 
acquainted  with  the  landscape,  and  when  the  street- 
car conductor  with  spectacles  called  me  by  my  Chris- 
tian name,  I  felt  that  I  knew  nearly  everyone  in 
Boston. 

One  morning,  about  a  year  after,  I  came  down  to 
breakfast,  after  having  had  a  loitering  play  with 
Pussy,  my  confidant,  and  found  Miss  Paxton  crying. 
A  canary  in  the  bay  window  was  singing  gaily  in  the 
morning  sunlight,  as  if  to  dispel  her  grief. 


A  STORY  Otf  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  35 

On  the  table  was  that  yellow  envelope  with  black 
letters  which  augurs  ill.  It  was  a  telegram. 

'  My  dear,  you  will  have  to  go  home — to-day. ' 

'What's  the  matter?     Is  mamma ' 

'  No,  no,  my  child,  but  your  mother  wants  you  at 
home.  ' 

'  My  papa ' 

'  He  has  gone  home,  and  is  much  better.' 

This  did  not  dispel  my  forebodings.  At  noon  Fred 
Burroughes  arrived,  and  I  returned  with  him.  My 
mind  was  so  absorbed  with  fears  of  something  wrong 
that  I  quite  forgot  my  companion  ;  indeed,  I  remember 
very  little  of  the  return  journey — I  don't  even  remem- 
ber bidding  dear  Miss  Paxton  good-bye.  The  train 
never  seemed  to  go  fast  enough. 

At  length  we  neared  Smith ville.  When  the  train 
whistled,  how  my  heart  leaped !  The  rattle  across  the 
old  railway  bridge  brought  me  one  bit  nearer.  My  nose 
was  pressed  against  the  car  window,  as  the  lights  in 
the  village  twinkled  a  welcome.  Our  home  was  at 
the  end  of  the  street,  and  I  saw  the  light  in  the  win- 
dow glimmering  like  a  lighthouse  in  a  harbor.  I 
imagined  a  death-bed  scene  ;  my  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  Out  of  the  '  bus  '  I  jumped,  and  rushed  in. 

'  Mother,  mother  ! '  I  cried.  She  was  not  there. 
Could  it  be?  My  father  grasped  and  kissed  me. 

'  Mother,  mother ! '  I  again  cried  wildly. 

'  Here,  Minza, '  cried  a  weak  familiar  voice  in 
another  room. 

I  hurried  into  the  darkened  room  and  smothered 
that  pale,  wan  face  with  kisses. 

'Another  brother,  Minza,'  said  father ;  and  then  in 


36  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

the  dim  light  I  saw  the  little  red  face  with  eyes  closed 
on  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  I  was  angry. 

'  Mother,  mother, '  I  cried,  '  I  didn't  want  any  more 
brothers. ' 

'Hush;  my  child,'  she  whispered. 

Father  had  tea  ready,  but  I  could  not  eat  until  I 
had  awakened  little  Joe  and  Jim,  who  were  sleeping 
together  in  a  cot. 

'Go's 'ittle  sisser,  Meddie.  Go's  nice  sisser.  Sisser's 
dot  oder  buzza.'  The  little  fellow's  eyes  sparkled  ; 
and  how  precious  his  little  form  seemed  in  that  long 
nightdress !  Baby  Jim  was  quite  a  boy,  and  hardly 
knew  me.  There  was  no  getting  little  Joe  to  bed  for  a 
time.  'Sissie's  come,  sissie's  come !'  he  cried,  as  he 
danced  about  the  room.  How  happy  I  was  ! 

Home  again. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  next  morning  I  spent  in  going  all  about  the  dear 
old  house  to  see  that  everything  was  there.  Little 
Joe  and  Jim  were  alwaj^s  with  me,  and  I  was  happy. 
Mother  asked  me  to  sing,  and  when  I  had  done  she 
called  me  in  to  kiss  me. 

'  I  am  so  happy,  Minza,  and  wanted  to  see  my  little 
girl  so  badly. ' 

'I'll  never  go  back,  mother,  never  !' 

It  seems  that  there  had  been  some  fears  of  her 
dying  a  few  days  before,  and  they  had  telegraphed  to 
me ;  but  that  morning  good,  fat  old  Dr.  Waddington 
came.  He  gave  me  a  good  hug  and  kiss,  and  his 
cheery  voice  soon  assured  me  that  all  was  well  with 
mother. 

'You  see,  I've  brought  you  another  brother,  Minza, 
and  he's  a  singer  too. ' 

The  next  few  days  were  one  flood  of  happiness. 
With  Angela  I  visited  the  dear  old  limekiln,  and  there, 
alone,  she  tried  to  tell  me  in  one  hour  all  that  had 
happened  in  a  year.  How  kind  everyone  seemed !  all 
glad  to  see  me,  so  they  said.  Even  Squire  Bumps 
stopped  and  shook  hands  with  me. 

When    I    returned    to    the  house    I    found    Mr. 

(37) 


38  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

Burroughes.  I  had  quite  forgotten  him  in  my  hap- 
piness at  arriving  home. 

'Now,  just  a  song,  Minza.  I  have  been  waiting, 
and  must  be  off  by  the  7:40  train.' 

I  sang  for  him  with  all  my  heart.  He  came  up  and 
kissed  me ;  his  blue  eyes  seemed  to  look  deep  into  my 
heart.  It  is  not  often  that  a  girl  of  twelve  falls  in  love 
with  a  man  of  twenty-nine.  He  was  my  beau  ideal,  and 
I  did  not  know  until  years  after  that  it  was  his  money 
which  paid  for  my  first  musical  instruction  in  Boston. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  old  cloud  arose  again. 
One  thousand  dollars  in  debt !  The  book  and  music 
shop  had  not  been  very  profitable  during  our  absence. 
Mother's  illness  had  stopped  the  revenue  from  teach- 
ing, and  yet  father  was  cheerful  and  sanguine. 

'  We  must  be  thankful  for  mother, '  he  said  ;  and  I 
know  he  thanked  God. 

It  was  the  following  week  that  the  thunder-clap 
fell.  Father's  illness  had  rather  thrown  him  out  of 
the  way  of  doing  business,  and  to  bridge  over  present 
and  pressing  difficulties  he  had  made  a  loan  of  three 
hundred  dollars  and  mortgaged  our  home,  expecting 
that  the  sale  of  our  two  horses  would  cover  it.  But 
this  morning  father's  uncle,  William  Gordon  (an 
Englishman),  arrived.  He  was  a  red-faced  man  with 
bonnet-string  whiskers.  His  face  and  nose  were 
frescoed  with  that  purple  tracery  which  bespeaks  a 
general  allowance  of  good  liquor.  He  had  thin  lips, 
and  somehow  I  felt  that  his  visit  foreboded  no  good. 

'  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  that  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars entirely,  Uncle  William.' 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  39 

'  Ah,  but  Hi  'ndn't,  me  boy.  So  I  came  to  see 
about  it  directly.' 

'  But  I  don't  know  how  I  can  pay  it  now.' 

*  Ah  !  but  ye  'avn't  tried  to  pay  it,  and  Hi  'old  a 
mortgage  on  those  horses  and  must  'ave  'em.' 

He  was  to  take  old  Tom  and  Fan. 

'  But  uncle,  I  must  pay  the  mortgage  on  my  house 
first,'  continued  father. 

'  That  be  blowed !  Your  botheration  poor  manage- 
ment will  'ave  us  hall  in  the  work'ouse.  I  must  'ave 
the  horses  directly.  You're  goin'  to  slip  'em  from  me, 
but  Hi  'old  a  mortgage.' 

This  was  enough  to  explain  his  visit.  He  wanted 
his  last  pound  of  horse-flesh. 

In  the  morning  we  saw  him  take  old  Tom  and  Fan 
out  of  the  barn,  and  lead  them  away  down  the  lane. 
We  all  cried  and  hugged  the  dear  old  horses,  who  had 
been  almost  a  part  of  the  family. 

'  I'm  lost,  I'm  lost !  How  can  I  pay  the  mortgage 
now  ? '  moaned  father. 

'It  will  come  out  all  right,  Robert ;  don't  worry, ' 
said  mother,  who  was  sitting  up  then. 

But  father  had  forgotten  that  the  mortgage  was  so 
soon  due ;  and  that  very  afternoon  papers  were  served 
on  him,  and  a  notice  published  in  the  village  news- 
paper announced  that  our  home  was  to  be  sold  at  a 
sheriffs  sale  in  seven  weeks.  Oh,  the  disgrace  of  see- 
ing that  notice  in  the  paper !  Why  couldn't  it  be  done 
privately  ?  Now  everyone  knew  of  it. 

Instead  of  mending,  matters  became  worse.  Father 
tried  to  sell  the  music  business,  but  there  were  no  buy- 
ers ;  mother  offered  her  piano,  but  no  one  had  money 


4O  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

just  then  ;  and  our  home  was  to  be  sacrificed  under  the 
sheriff's  hammer.  The  sale-  was  to  be  held  on  Mon- 
day, and  on  the  Sunday  I  went  on  my  way  to  church, 
as  the  first  bell  was  ringing,  with  gloomy  feelings. 
Just  as  I  was  entering,  I  met  Tim  Rathbone.  He 
walked  along  with  me.  Tim  had  no  sisters,  and  he 
called  me  his  sister. 

'You're  not  stuck-up  ef  ye  have  been  to  Boston, 
are  you,  Minza  ? ' 

'No,  Tim,  '  said  I ;  'I'm  so  miserable.' 

1  What's  up  ? ' 

'  Our  home  is  to  be  sold  to-morrow,  and  I — don't 
'  And  I  burst  out  crying. 

'  Go  to  the  bank  and  borrow  money  like  my  dad, ' 
said  Tim  defiantly,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

'  Yes,  but  they  won't  give  it  to  me.' 

'  I'll  go  with  you,'  he  asserted. 

Tim's  words  comforted  although  they  did  not 
assure  me.  The  sermon  that  day  was  on  the  text, 
'  Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow. '  The  anthem 
responded  with  the  words  '  Without  money — without 
—without — with — out  mon — ey  and  without — without 
— price,  '  rolled  over  and  over  on  the  singers'  tongues. 

What  a  mockery  !  Father  was  unmanned,  mother 
was  still  feeble  and  ill. 

The  next  morning  Tim  and  I  stood  at  the  bank 
door  at  nine  o'clock  when  it  was  opened.  Mr.  Lane- 
son,  the  cashier,  came  up  just  then  and  asked  kindly: 

'Well,  what's  wanted,  my  little  ones?' 

'  She  wants  three  hundred  dollars  to  pay  that 
mortgedge  what's  being  sold  to-day  at  her  house,' 
spoke  up  Tim,  with  a  business-like  air. 


A  STORY   OP  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  4! 

'  What  security  have  you  ?  ' 

'  Myself,  '  I  spoke  up.  '  Anything — my  right  ami; 
my  life,  anything,'  I  continued  passionately. 

'Yes,  but  that's  not  collateral  and  won't  pay  inter- 
est. You  do  not  understand  these  things,  my  little 
girl.' 

'  But  I  must  have  the  money,  sir  !  If  you  want  to 
save  life — if  you  have  a  soul — I  will  sell  anything — 
my  life — my  voice — only ' 

'Well  now,  let's  see  about  this/  said  Mr.  Lane- 
son,  turning  to  one  of  the  pimply-faced  clerks,  who  had 
a  kind  eye,  and  seemed  to  know  all  the  circumstances. 
Mr.  Laneson  took  two  bunches  of  bank-notes  from  the 
counter,  put  a  slip  on  the  big  hook,  and  followed  me. 

The  sale  was  at  ten  o'clock  that  morning.  The 
Sheriff  was  there  with  a  motley  crowd  of  villagers,  few 
of  whom  were  bidders — they  came  like  chronic  mourn- 
ers at  a  funeral.  The  Sheriff  was  about  to  raise  his 
hammer  and  begin  the  sale,  when  Mr.  L,aneson 
whispered  in  his  ear. 

The  sale  stopped.  The  big,  kind-looking  Sheriff 
replied,  '  Cut  off  my  fees  too.  She's  a  plucky  gal,  she 
is.' 

The  home  was  saved,  but  I  had  sold  my  voice. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  old  home  was  saved ;  there  is  always  a  critical 
point  in  times  of  misfortune  which,  if  once  passed, 
brings  plenty  of  help. 

However,  we  were  still  one  thousand  dollars  in 
debt,  and  now  I  had  sold  my  voice  for  three  hundred 
dollars  to  the  kind-hearted  banker. 

'This  money  must  be  paid  back  at  once  to  Mr. 
Laneson,'  said  mother,  caressing  the  little  brother, 
who  was  not  yet  dignified  with  a  name. 

'  We  will  sell  the  business, '  said  father  from  the 
back  room,  wiping  the  dishes. 

'No,  we  must  not  part  with  some  means  of  income,' 
replied  our  little  commander,  mother.  '  Minza,  you 
must  give  concerts, '  she  continued  quickly. 

'How  can  I,  mother?'     I  asked. 

'You  must;  I  will  help  you.  One  at  La  Ford,  at 
Washville,  at  Smithville,  at  Brownstown,  and  other 
places  if  necessary.' 

In  a  few  days  mother  began  the  preparations  in 
earnest.  My  violin  six  hours  a  day ;  piano  two ;  and 
voice  one.  A  few  days  after,  dear  Fred  Burroughes 
arrived  and  said  that  he  had  secured  a  holiday  vaca- 
tion to  help  us. 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  43 

'I  will  be  your  business  manager,  Minza.' 

And  poor  Fred  was  my  first  manager. 

Old  Dr.  Waddington  owned  the  village  paper,  and 
the  concert  was  advertised  weeks  beforehand  in  large 
portentous  black  letters.  The  story  of  saving  the 
home  from  the  Sheriffs  sale  was  judiciously  gossiped 
about,  and,  although  I  did  not  realize  what  was  going 
on,  the  concert  was  looked  forward  to  with  uncom- 
mon interest.  My  having  been  to  Boston  added  an 
interest  to  the  event  in  the  minds  of  the  country  peo- 
ple, but  still  its  success  looked  dubious.  It  was  found 
that  the  Town  Hall  could  not  be  secured  for  that  eve- 
ning, and  the  church  trustees,  at  the  request  of  dear 
old  Rev.  Mr.  Frazer,  decided  to  allow  the  use  of  the 
church  on  condition  that  'there  shall  be  no  loud  or 
sacrilegious  applause.' 

So  my  first  starring  tour  began  in  a  church.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  I  love  its  simple  faith  ? 

At  the  last  dress  rehearsal  I  was  in  a  fever  of 
excitement.  Mother  had  planned  the  programme  so 
as  to  bring  all  my  musical  powers  into  play.  The 
church  was  lighted  for  the  evening.  Angela  and  the 
other  girls  had  been  busy  with  the  interior  decorations 
all  the  afternoon.  The  chandeliers  and  side  lamps 
wert  festooned  with  evergreens  as  at  Christmas  time. 
The  people  began  to  come  in  early.  There  was  the 
usual  flutter  among  the  children  in  the  front  seats, 
trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was  going  on  behind 
the  curtain. 

The  first  number  was  'Pull  for  the  Shore'  from 
Gospel  Hymns.  I  sang  the  verses  and  the  chorus 
joined,  and  when  the  curtains  were  pulled  aside  a  real 


44  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

boat  was  wheeled  across  the  stage  on  bedstead  castors, 
with  ropes.  This  was  a  modern  realism  that  pleased. 
It  was  dramatic  and  a  surprise. 

I  cannot  give  the  programme  completely,  but  I 
remember  reciting  Jean  Ingelow's  'Polish  Boy'  with 
all  the  shrieking  fervor  of  the  brand-new  elocution 
student.  Two  operatic  numbers  from  'Mignon'  and 
'Maritana'  were  given  on  the  violin.  How  dear  the 
old  violin  seemed  as  I  caressed  it !  I  felt  my  soul 
thrill  as  my  fingers  touched  the  strings  and  wandered 
through  the  perilous  ascents  of  the  fourth  and  fifth 
positions.  The  cadenza  was  given  pianissimo  in 
almost  breathless  silence.  The  harmonics  and  octave 
passages  and  fifth  variation  seemed  so  simple  that 
night ! 

It  was  encore  after  encore  for  every  violin  selec- 
tion, in  spite  of  the  church  trustees'  warning.  If  I 
remember  rightly,  my  singing  was  not  so  well 
applauded,  but  the  Moon  Dance  from  'Dinorah'  seemed 
to  please.  Here  were  my  first  trials  in  make-up  and 
dressing-room  drudgery. 

We  drove  about  to  the  succeeding  concerts  in  lumber 
wagons.  Our  company,  including  mothers  and  aunts 
who  went  with  us  to  look  after  the  children,  num- 
bered thirty-two.  The  last  concert  was  given  at 
Mount  Orling.  Fred  told  me  there  were  fifty-two  of 
the  three  hundred  dollars  yet  to  raise,  and  he  hoped 
this  last  night  would  do  it.  Shortly  before  eight 
o'clock  that  evening  it  began  to  rain  in  perfect  tor- 
rents; the  outlook  was  very  blue.  There  were  only 
sixteen  people  in  the  house  at  the  time  for  beginning 
the  concert 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  45 

'  Will  you  go  on  with  the  programme,  Mrs.  Max- 
well ?'  anxiously  whispered  Fred. 

'  Certainly, '  she  replied. 

Of  course  the  singers  were  careless,  and  many  mis- 
takes occurred.  It  nearly  unnerved  mother  ;  it  seemed 
such  an  inglorious  end  for  so  auspicious  a  beginning. 
For  the  last  number  I  sang  a  solo  and  the  chorus 
joined.  Some  of  the  singers  forgot  the  retard,  and  the 
piece  ended  pell-mell — a  breakdown  !  The  girls  and 
boys  in  the  chorus  sniggered,  the  solitary  sixteen  in 
the  great  room  of  empty  chairs  tittered.  Quick  as  a 
flash  mother  struck  the  chords  for  '  Home,  Sweet 
Home,'  and  nodded  to  me.  Visions  of  the  Sheriff's 
sale  came  before  me,  and  I  sang.  Tears  were  in  my 
eyes — mother's  were  moist. 

'Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home  !' 
is  the  passage  of  the  song  that  thrills. 

The  curtain  was  drawn. 

Just  then  Fred  came  forward  rather  dejectedly. 
Old  Farmer  Goulden,  who  owned  a  large  number  of 
farms  in  the  neighborhood,  followed  him. 

'  That  gal  ought  to  be  a  big  singer,  mum, '  he  said 
to  mother. 

'  Yes,  sir, '  she  replied  softly. 

'  Burn  '  poor  house  to-night.  Say,  little  un,  sing 
that  air  song  ag'in.' 

It  was  sung  to  please  him.  Tears  stood  in  his 
eyes. 

'  May  I  kiss  the  gal,  mum  ?  I  just  lost  my  little 
gal  Aggie — shesleeps  in  the  cimetary  out  there,  mum — 
she' sin  that  home  over  there,  the  L,ord  be  praised,  mum. 
Say,  that  little  gal  can  sing  ;  and  that's  the  song  my 


46  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

Aggie  used  to  sing.  Say,  mum,  that  was  worth  fifty 
dollars  to  me,  by  gosh  it  was,  and  ye've  had  tuff  luck 
to-night.  Buy  that  gal  suthin'  with  this.  Good 
even' . ' 

He  was  gone,  and  had  left  a  crisp  bank-note  in 
mother's  hands. 

There  was  a  consultation  as  to  whether  it  should 
be  kept.  I  said  'yes'  and  Fred  obeyed  me,  although 
mother  protested. 

It  was  a  dreary  ride  home,  six  miles  through  muddy 
roads  after  the  rain  ;  but  the  battle  was  won,  and  to- 
morrow the  debt  to  Mr.  Laneson  should  be  nearly  all 
paid  from  the  concert  funds,  and  my  voice  was  my 
own  again. 

This  was  my  first  concert  tour.  Time  always  soft- 
ens the  rough  edges  of  hard  experiences,  and  now  I 
look  back  on  those  days  as  among  the  happiest  of  my 
life — I  had  detected  no  minor  chord  in  them. 


CHAPTER  X 

A.FTER  the  concert  experience,  father  surprised  us  by 
solemnly  announcing  that  he  was  going  into  politics. 

'  Mother,  they  want  me  to  run  for  town  recorder. 
All  the  business  men  and  leading  ratepayers  of  the 
village  have  promised  to  support  me,  and 

'  Robert,  you  know  I  hate  politics,  and  I  am  afraid 
that  you're  too  trusting.' 

'  Oh,  no,  Helen  ;  they  would  not  be  so  anxious  if 
that  were  true,  and,  besides,  the  salary  is  two  hun- 
dred dollars  a  year,  and  that  would  help  feed  these 
little  mouths.' 

'  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  it  ;  they're  a  deceiv- 
ing lot — these  politicians.' 

'Well,  nothing  risk,  nothing  gain,  mother.  Faint 
heart  ne'er  won  fair  lady.' 

Father  had  a  few  standard  quotations  that  he  could 
always  offer  on  any  occasion. 

Never  can  I  forget  that  election  day  a  week  later. 
The  young  rowdies  of  the  town  were  led  by  a  young 
attorney  who  had  just  returned  from  college.  He  was 
father's  opponent,  and  was  one  who  had  induced 
father  to  become  a  candidate ;  but  everything  is  fair  in 
politics.  There  was  not  much  of  a  contest  on  the 

(47) 


48  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

balance  of  father's  ticket,  which  was  printed  as  follows 
— I  still  have  it. 


FOR  MAYOR 

WILLIAM  BOWDISH 

FOR  ASSESSOR 
JAMES  GALLAXY 

FOR  TRUSTEE 

WILLIAM  HOOKING 

FOR  RECORDER 

ROBERT  MAXWELL 


Father  was  on  the  popular  and  winning  ticket.  I 
went  with  him  to  the  election  quarters  in  the  after- 
noon. The  room  was  blue  with  smoke  from  the  town 
idlers.  The  ballot  box  was  presided  over  by  two  old 
citizens,  and  clerks  wrote  down  the  names  as  the  tick- 
ets were  folded  and  handed  to  the  inspectors  and  put 
through  the  small  hole  in  the  ballot-box  with  solemn 
ceremony. 

'Well,  Robert,  you'll  have  a  walk-away,'  joked  old 
Squire  Bumps.  Something  told  me  that  he  was  lying  ; 
but  father,  trusting  father,  though  it  was  so. 

A  moment  later  father's  opponent,  the  young  attor- 
ney, Cicero  Corbutt,  entered  the  room  with  a  large 
crowd  of  half-drunken  rowdies.  On  their  coat  lapels 
they  wore  printed  labels,  'Sooner  men.' 

'Rah  for  Cicero!  We're  "Sooner,"  we  are,  and 
we'll  knock  out  the  durned  ole  mossbacks.' 

They  filed  in  and  voted.     Many  of  them  were  men 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  4$ 

temporarily  employed  in  building  a  railroad  some  dis- 
tance from  the  village.  Cicero  glared  at  us  through 
his  spectacles  as  if  to  say,  '  I  am  a  politician.' 

'We'll  fix  'em,  boys — we  must  hustle  some  more 
votes, '  he  cried. 

'Rah  for  the  "  Sooners ! " '  was  the  echoing 
response. 

'  Come  an'  have  something,  boys, '  declaimed  the 
oratorical  Cicero,  and  he  led  his  Coxey  army  out  of 
the  door. 

How  breathlessly  we  waited  the  result  of  the  count 
that  night !  I  had  my  fears,  but  hoped  and  hoped 
somehow  that  father  had  a  majority  of  the  votes.  He 
laughed  at  my  fears. 

'  Why,  do  you  suppose  that  Smithville,  the  respect- 
able ratepayers  of  Smithville,  will  allow  those  rowdies 
to  rule  us  ?  I  must  go  down  and  be  ready  for  con- 
gratulations.' 

Not  long  after  he  had  gone  we  heard  the  wild  yells 
from  the  Town  Hall,  '  Rah  for  Sooners — Sooners  gits 
there — whoop-la-tiger-ree  !  ' 

Father's  ticket  had  won  the  day,  but  Cicero  had 
had  split  tickets  printed  with  all  the  names  of  the 
opposition  ticket  on  them  except  father's,  and  his  own 
name  inserted  instead.  Many  of  the  tickets  had  un- 
doubtedly been  put  in  by  voters  under  the  impression 
that  they  were  voting  the  straight  ticket  with  father's 
name  upon  it,  but  they  had  voted  the  fatal  '  split. ' 
But  this  was  American  politics ;  it  was  called  shrewd 
and  sharp  tactics. 

'  Three  cheers  for  Cicero  ! '  rang  out  on  the  night 
air. 


50  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

The  day  was  lost — poor  father !  He  soon  came 
back  :  his  face  told  us  the  result.  '  Beaten  by  two 
votes,'  was  all  he  said. 

'  Enough  of  politics,  Robert ! '  said  mother  softly. 

I  felt  very  bitter  towards  Cicero  Corbutt,  but  our 
ways  soon  drifted  apart,  and  I  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity for  my  well-planned  revenge.  Every  politician 
has  his  day,  and  the  leader  of  the  'Sooners'  was 
shelved,  like  a  falling  meteor,  in  the  prime  of  life ; 
they  say  he  is  now  a  Populist,  struggling  to  rise  again. 

Pcor  father !  He  retired  from  the  dazzling  arena 
of  American  politics,  and  never  forgot  the  lesson. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IN  spite  of  the  political  defeat,  we  managed  to  live. 
We  can  always  bear  reversals  better  when  realized 
than  when  anticipated.  I  continued  going  to  school 
and  assisting  father  at  the  music  store,  and  mother 
was  able  to  resume  her  teaching. 

The  last  days  at  the  old  brick  school-house,  with 
its  cracked  bell,  were,  I  think,  the  happiest  of  my  life. 
I  had  then  my  first  real  boy  lover. 

Our  teacher  was  Ellen  Riser,  one  full  of  inspira- 
tion; she  was  a  typical  strong-minded,  self-reliant 
American  woman.  What  a  strife  there  was  among 
the  girls  to  stay  with  her  at  night !  She  never  seemed 
above  us,  out  of  our  reach,  but  always  one  of  us.  Her 
methods  of  teaching  were  rather  unconventional.  We 
were  taught  to  probe  for  reason  and  logic  rather  than 
memorize  rules.  Her  master  mind  seemed  to  bring 
all  the  complex  curriculum  of  reasoning  within  our 
childish  comprehension.  She  interested  us,  she  in- 
spired us.  There  was  always  a  rivalry  that  stimulated 
effort  and  ambition  for  the  future. 

We  boys  and  girls  would  all  talk  together  during 
recess  and  after  school.  The  boys  would  manage  to 
sit  beside  us  at  classes,  and  an  occasional  sly  note 

(so 


52  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

during  school  hours  would  arrange,  'company  home' 
after  the  Lyceum,  which  was  a  literary  and  musical 
programme  given  every  Friday  night  in  the  High 
School  room.  Miss  Riser  acted  as  judge  in  the 
debates.  At  these  entertainments  the  boys  were 
allowed  to  see  the  girls  home.  Never  can  I  forget  the 
time  when  I  received  my  first  ncte,  which  read :  '  May 
I  see  you  safely  home  from  L,yceum  Friday  night? — 
TIMOTHY  RATHBONE.' 

As  I  was  red-headed,  and  not  particularly  pretty, 
this  was  thrilling.  I  had  always  been  a  sister  to  the 
boys  before,  helping  on  the  other  couples ;  but  now  I 
had  a  lover  of  my  own.  I  replied,  in  a  crude,  scraw- 
ling hand:  'Your  company  is  accepted. — MINZA.' 

Next  morning,  as  was  customary  when  a  boy  and 
girl  began  to  talk  interestingly  alone  together,  there 
appeared  on  the  blackboard,  in  great  flaming  letters, 
these  words : — 

C  TIM 

-<    and 

(  MINZA 

We  were  linked,  and  discussed  matrimony  freely. 

We  are  all  perhaps  silly,  as  boys  and  girls ;  but 
that  is  the  time  when  we  have  the  purest  affection. 

It  was  quite  the  rage  to  give  surprise  parties,  when 
we  would  gather  at  a  friend's  house,  taking  along 
refreshments,  and  surprise  someone.  The  games  were 
not  precisely  intellectual ;  they  included  '  post  office, ' 
'spat  'em  out,'  'hissing  and  clapping,'  with  forfeits 
and  fines,  and  the  merriment  in  paying  the  penalty. 

The  first  night  Tim  took  me  home  he  barely 
touched  my  arm,  and  we  fairly  ran,  we  were  so  excited. 


A  STORY   OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  53 

But  we  got  over  that. 

Tim  was  a  good  boy.  They  called  him  '  Wildy, ' 
an  abbreviation  for  Wild  Irishman ;  but  his  heart  was 
good ;  he  loved  his  mother,  and  that  won  me. 

One  night  we  passed  the  old  limekiln,  on  our  way 
home  from  the  Lyceum.  It  was  a  gentle  night  in 
June.  There  was  the  soft,  scented  odor  of  new-turned 
ground,  and  the  smoldering  of  burning  rubbish  in 
the  gardens.  The  summer  stars  made  it  seem  so 
happy.  We  had  not  spoken. 

'Minza,  we  graduate  in  June,  and  I'm  goin'  away.' 

'Is  that  so?'  said  I  innocently,  although  I  knew  it 
well. 

'Yes,  and  we're  goin'  to  part,  and  I ' 

'Oh,  isn't  that  a  pretty  star,  Tim?' 

'Now,  Minza,  don't  be  foolish  ;  we're  going  to  be 
married  some  day.' 

'Is  that  so?' 

'Yes,  and  you  know  it;  and  I'm  going  to  be  a 
lawyer,  and  I  want  you  to ' 

'  Look  out  for  that  cow,  Tim ! ' 

'  Now,  Minza,  you  must  not  flirt  and  go  with  the 
other  fellows  when  I  am  gone,  will  you  ? ' 

'Why,  Tim,  we  can't  be  married  right  away, 
and ' 

'Minza,  you're  the  best  girl  on  earth,  next  to 
mother ! ' 

How  I  loved  him  for  that ! 

'I  am  going  to  kiss  you.' 

And  he  did. 

'When  I'm  a  lawyer,  we  will  travel  over  Europe, 
like  Mrs.  Buggins.' 


54  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

'Don't  you  think  these  are  the  same  stars  that  are 
over  in  Europe  now?' 

'  Minza's  my  star  always,'  he  said,  as  passionately 
as  a  boy  can. 

And  he  kissed  me  again  and  held  me  in  his  arms, 
just  like  stage  people.  We  were  betrothed. 

I  think  pictures  and  stage  scenes  educate  young 
lovers.  Tim's  dark  earnest  eyes  were  very  sincere, 
and  his  curly  hair  just  outside  his  little  cap  made  him 
look  quite  poetical. 

Graduation  Day  arrived.  Tim  was  making  his 
last  speech,  and  his  voice,  just  changing,  gave  a  vari- 
ation from  squeaking  falsetto  to  heavy  bass;  but  he 
was  so  earnest !  The  exercises  were  held  in  the  Town 
Hall,  which  was  decorated  with  the  roses  and  flowers 
of  June. 

Over  the  stage  was  a  motto  worked  in  evergreens: 


'No  Steps  Backward.' 


All  was  excitement  over  our  dresses.  Here  was 
where  my  first  wrestle  with  stage  dresses  began. 
There  were  sixteen  in  the  class.  We  had  our  pictures 
taken  the  afternoon  before  Graduation  Day,  and  what 
a  flood  of  recollections  it  brings  back! 

Where  are  those  sixteen  now?  Some  up,  some 
down,  as  the  world  goes  ;  some  dead.  But  what 
ambitious  hopes  throbbed  that  night !  We  felt  as  if 
we  were  quite  ready  for  real  life.  Miss  Riser  rehearsed 
us  in  our  essays  and  orations.  My  theme  was  'The 
Tale  of  an  Old  Shoe;'  the  others  fluently  discussed 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  55 

'Success,'  'Happiness,'  'Wisdom,'  and  other  great 
problems. 

The  evening  arrived.  Mother  was  there  to  look 
after  the  music,  and  even  little  Joe  and  the  babies 
were  brought  to  see  '  Sissy  graduate.'  All  the  parents 
beamed  upon  the  graduates  fondly.  Old  Beemer,  the 
deaf  blacksmith,  was  in  the  front  seat;  and  his  eyes 
never  left  sweet,  blushing  little  Dora,  his  only  daugh- 
ter. We  sat  in  a  semicircle  ;  all  the  girls  were  clad  in 
white  and  wore  white  slippers.  Tim  looked  very 
important  in  his  first  white  vest.  Miss  Riser  sat  at 
one  side,  attired  in  neat  black  with  white  ruching 
and  lace  about  her  neck. 

Some  of  the  boys  forgot  their  orations,  and  the 
same  breathless  thrill  held  me  until  I  had  read  my 
essay  that  I  still  feel  just  before  appearing  on  the 
stage.  The  smaller  girls  brought  the  floral  trophies 
and  laid  them  at  our  feet.  Sitting  there  in  the  cool 
glare  of  the  audience,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  father  and 
the  babies. 

'  "Tale  of  an  Old  Shoe."  Miss  Maxwell !'  I  arose 
and  bowed  to  Miss  Riser. 

'  Dat's  my  sissy  !  dat's  my  sissy  !'  broke  out  little 
Jimmy. 

The  audience  tittered.  Father  and  mother  were 
crestfallen.  I  started  to  read.  The  first  pages  were 
missing  !  I  looked  and  felt  blank.  Miss  Riser 
glanced  over  and  blushed.  An  awkward  pause.  I 
looked  straight  ahead  despairingly,  and  from  memory 
repeated,  as  best  I  could,  the  missing  pages.  As  soon 
as  I  could  depend  upon  my  manuscript  again  the 
terrible  lump  in  my  throat  left  me,  but  it  did  not  save 


56  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

the  family  another  disgraceful  blunder.  After  the 
applause  a  little  voice  again  piped  out — 

'Dat's  niy  sissy  !  dat's  my  sissy!'  and  father  had 
to  walk  out  with  the  babies  in  the  ripple  of  laughter 
that  followed. 

After  the  exercises  the  audience  surged  forward  to 
congratulate  the  young  intellectual  gladiators.  I  feU 
the  sting  of  disgrace  until  Miss  Riser,  who  had  parted 
with  the  others,  took  me  aside  and  gave  me  a  warm 
kiss. 

'  Dear  Minza,  you  are  going  to  be  famous  some 
day.  I  am  proud  of  you.  In  the  years  to  come,  do 
not  forget  how  your  homely  school  teacher  loved  you. ' 

We  had  a  quiet  cry  together.  That  is  the  way  a 
woman  can  best  ease  her  mind. 

During  August,  father  sold  the  music  and  book 
business.  The  money  was  to  be  used  to  send  me  to 
college. 

Tim  had  gone  away  soon  after  graduation,  and  I 
received  my  first  love  letters  from  him — not  entirely 
eloquent  and  poetical,  but  treasured  for  the  happy 
memories  they  bring  back. 

Off  to  college  !  What  girl  does  not  remember  that 
epoch  of  her  life?  As  the  train  whizzed  away,  my 
mind  wandered  back  to  those  sleeping  baby  faces,  and 
mother  holding  the  lamp  and  shading  her  eyes  for  a 
last  look  at  me  through  the  darkness. 

Well,  life  is  made  up  of  partings  and  greetings. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IOWA  has  many  good  colleges,  but  of  course  I  think 
old  Cornwell  is  the  best  of  all,  in  spite  of  the  sad 
memories  connected  with  my  own  brief  collegiate 
career.  How  lonesome  and  strange  it  seemed  on  my 
first  arrival  !  I  recognized  the  buildings  on  the  hills 
from  the  pictures  I  had  seen.  The  landscape  was  fes- 
tooned with  handsome  autumn  foliage.  The  old 
chapel  tower  and  the  chimes  of  the  clock  were  inci- 
dents mingled  with  my  first  recollections. 

We  drove  along  the  shaded  road  up  the  long  hill 
to  the  'Sem.'  or  Nunnery, 'ac  it  was  called,  where  the 
girls  boarded.  I  did  not  know  a  single  person  in  the 
village ;  and  there  is  always  a  first  shrinking  from 
strangers,  even  on  a  tram  or  in  railway  cars,  that  is 
decidedly  uncomfortable  to  the  strangers. 

As  we  passed  by  the  long  row  of  pleasant  cottages 
I  fancied  each  occupant  of  the  village  was  necessarily 
a  student  with  scarcely  a  thought  of  worldly  things. 

Who  knew  but  in  one  of  these  homes  there  dwelt 
the  typical  young  student  with  a  long  moustache  that 
had  taken  up  my  youthful  fancies? — and  then  I 
thought  of  Tim  !  Here,  I  thought,  a  professor  must 
dwell,  for  there  was  a  hammock  in  the  porch,  and  no 
student  would  have  time  to  swing  in  a  hammock. 

(57) 


58  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

I  found  out  my  mistake  afterwards. 

Miss  Cooker,  the  preceptress,  met  me  on  the  broad 
steps  that  led  up  to  the  study  rooms  over  the  dining- 
room  below.  The  girls  peeped  from  behind  the  doors 
of  the  rooms,  giving  shy  glances  at  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  hall  with  my  homely  green  bag.  How  I 
longed  for  Angela  or  someone  that  I  knew ! 

Miss  Cooker  was  a  severely  intellectual  woman, 
whose  heart  seemed  withered.  Her  face  was  wrinkled 
with  study,  and  her  false  teeth  made  her  mouth  look 
full,  firm,  and  decided  ;  but  she  was  a  woman  of  high 
ideals,  and  tried  to  be  kind. 

After  Professor  Garlem,  the  president,  had  classified 
me  on  my  examination  marks  from  the  High  School. 
I  began  to  feel  more  at  home.  As  I  was  the  last 
pupil  to  arrive,  I  was  given  a  little  room  on  the  third 
floor  by  myself.  The  furniture  was  simple — a  study 
table,  washstand,  small  mirror,  a  little  iron  bedstead 
and  rug.  Yet  it  was  seclusion — a  retreat,  and  I  soon 
learned  to  love  it  as  home.  At  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning  we  were  to  be  ready  for  breakfast  in  the  base- 
ment. Our  oatmeal  was  always  steaming  hot.  At 
7:45  came  our  horrid  Latin  Lesson — '  Amo,  amas, 
amat. '  The  conjunctions  were  a  nightmare.  At  8:30 
the  dear  old  chapel  bell  rang  out  like  a  break  in  the 
day.  We  each  had  our  particular  seat  at  the  tables  as 
in  the  chapel. 

The  devotional  exercises  were  conducted  in  turn 
by  different  members  of  the  faculty.  Professor  Boy- 
sen's  long  prayers  were  supposed  to  match  his  long 
patriarchal  whiskers.  He  reminded  me  of  pictures  of 
Moses.  Little  Professor  Goblin's  study  of  Greek 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  59 

gave  him  choice  language,  but  his  Boston  pronuncia- 
tion made  it  just  as  difficult  to  understand  as  the 
Greek  itself.  Miss  Cooker's  appeals  were  cold  and 
classic,  like  her  teeth.  Professor  Collinsgate's  prayer 
was  a  meek  and  timid  supplication  from  a  meek  and 
timid  little  man.  Professor  Brighton  was  always 
short,  sharp,  and  crusty,  and  his  low  shoes  often 
revealed  different  colored  hosiery.  Professor  Wilhelm 
gave  his  prayers  a  tinge  of  the  civil-engineering 
squint  through  a  theodolite  as  he  turned  his  eyes  to 
the  ceiling. 

These  impromptu  prayers  were  so  often  repeated 
that  each  one  seemed  to  have  committed  his  pet 
phrases  to  memory,  and  the  same  words  rolled  out 
time  after  time.  Lieutenant  Jenkins  from  West 
Point,  who  had  charge  cf  the  college  battalions,  did 
not  lead  in  religious  services.  He  simply  bowed  his 
bald  head  very  reverently,  and  looked  good.  Miss 
Bernard,  one  of  the  teachers  in  the  Musical  Conserva- 
tory, presided  at  the  grand  piano,  and  gave  her  pretty 
head  a  nod  to  begin  the  singing.  Those  songs  were 
the  inspiring  portion  of  the  service.  How  those  five 
hundred  voices  used  to  ring  out  the  old  '  Portuguese 
Hymn:' 

'How  firm  a  foundation, 
Ye  saints  of  the  Lord  !' 

Strangers,  to  Alma  Mater  and  distinguished  visitors 
were  allowed  a  few  minutes  to  talk  after  prayers,  and 
how  wickedly  we  used  to  pray  that  they  would  break 
into  the  next  class  hour,  which  was  usually  a  course 
of  mathematics. 

Under  Miss  Bernard  I  continued  my  vocal  studies 


60  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

and  gradually  became  acquainted  with  the  other 
students.  I  thought  it  a  crowning  honor  when  the 
Philomathean  Society  invited  me  to  join  their  circle. 
A  few  days  later  the  Galateans,  the  rival  society,  also 
invited  me ;  but  I  chose  the  first.  Programmes  of  a 
literary  and  musical  character  were  given  every  Friday 
evening.  I  was  often  asked  to  give  vocal  selections. 
After  the  exercises  a  social  session  was  held,  and 
'Rule  No  12'  was  suspended  for  the  occasion,  and  the 
boys  allowed  to  see  the  girls  home.  The  first  few 
times  I  walked  across  the  campus  alone  to  the  'Sem.,' 
with  the  other  homely  girls.  But  all  homely  girls  have 
some  feature  which  attracts  admiration  more  than 
mere  beauty  itself.  A  well-formed  and  delicate 
hand,  a  dimple  well  displayed,  shining  teeth,  pretty 
hair,  or  a  bright  twinkle  to  the  eye,  or  a  clever  tongue 
— every  girl  is  blessed  with  some  attraction,  and 
womankind  spends  a  large  fraction  of  her  waking 
hours  in  appearing  beautiful.  Is  it  appreciated?  I 
envied  the  girls  with  lovers,  and  one  night  Bob  Bur- 
nette,  the  janitor  of  the  'Sem.,'  asked  to  'see  me 
home.'  He  was  a  bright  fellow,  and  always  left  me  a 
generous  amount  of  wood,  with  which  to  build  my 
fires.  He  had  worn  his  coat  through  by  carrying  the 
firewood  on  his  shoulders,  and  I  mended  it  for  him. 
We  became  good  friends,  and  he  called  me  his  sister. 

'Yes,  surely  Tim  will  not  care,'  thought  I,  as  I 
looked  into  the  boyish  face  of  the  photograph  on  my 
table. 

Robert  was  my  father's  name,  and  I  was  rather 
pleased  to  have  his  namesake's  company.  He  squeezed 
my  arm  tight  as  we  walked  down  the  shaded  lane  with 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIM  A   DONNA.  6 1 

trees  on  either  side,  and  the  moonbeams  shining 
through  the  lattice-work  of  branches.  There  is  always 
love  breathed  in  such  an  atmosphere.  A  glance  into 
each  other's  eyes  with  the  moon  just  right,  and  soft 
silent  shadows,  has  often  sealed  love's  message. 

Robert  was  a  self-reliant  fellow,  making  his  way 
through  college  and  studying  for  the  ministry.  While 
he  was  not  exactly  ostracized  by  the  'Sem.'  girls,  they 
seemed  to  think  very  little  of  going  with  'our  janitor.' 
The  rich  men's  sons  were  in  better  demand. 

Now,  I  had  no  idea  of  falling  in  love  with  Bob.  In 
fact,  I  don't  think  I  knew  what  love  was ;  but  I  must 
confess  I  liked  him,  and  he  was  my  '  solid  fellow.' 

One  Saturday,  after  a  lonely  walk,  I  found  a  note 
under  my  door,  with  a  liberal  allowance  of  firewood 
outside : 

'  Minza,  I  must  see  you  to-night — BOB.' 

I  could  not  imagine  what  it  meant,  as  we  always 
met  each  other  several  times  a  day. 

It  had  been  raining,  and  was  a  cold,  damp  night.  I 
wanted  to  post  a  letter  home.  Bob  was  passing  with 
an  umbrella. 

'  Bob,  may  I  borrow  your  umbrella  ?' 

'You  may,  if  you  borrow  me.' 

'All  right,'  I  said,  and  off  we  went  in  the  rain.  The 
umbrella  was  small,  and  we  were  rather  close  together. 
Bob  was  evidently  nervous  about  something,  and  talked 
but  little.  Just  as  we  were  about  to  turn  into  the 
campus,  under  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  Bob  turned 
to  me  and  said: 


62  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

'  Minza,  I  love  you,  and '     That  was  as  far  as 

he  got.     I  did  not  expect  it,  and  turned  pale. 

'  Minza,  will  you  love  me?  '  he  continued,  slipping 
his  arm  about  my  waist. 

I  pushed  it  away,  and  turned  paler.  Had  I  been  a 
flirt  ?  Poor  Tim's  face  was  before  me  as  Duty.  Bob's 
dark  eyes  flashed  I,ove.  I  gave  no  answer.  He  pressed 
my  hand. 

'  My  life  is  yours,  Minza. ' 

We  went  to  the  society  rooms,  where  I  was  to  sing. 
It  was  not  a  love  song,  or  one  fitted  to  express  senti- 
ment, but  Bob  followed  me  closely  with  his  eyes,  and 
my  voice  quivered. 

'  She  must  be  ill  to-night, '  I  heard  them  say,  as  I 
passed  out. 

'  Take  me  home,  Bob, '  I  pleaded.  His  eyes  seemed 
to  pierce  me  deeper  than  ever.  I  gave  him  no  answer, 
but  he  kissed  me. 

Was  I  a  coquette  ? 

'  Minza,  don't  trifle.  Marry  for  love — don't  flirt 
— and  remember  how  Bob  loves  you  ;'  and  he  gave  me 
that  self-reliant  and  defiant  look  which  I  so  much 
admired.  School  girls  sometimes  take  these  matters 
very  seriously.  Here  was  I  with  two  lovers,  and  not 
yet  sixteen ! 

On  the  college  bulletin  boards  in  a  glass  case,  near 
the  main  entrance,  was  the  programme  of  the  '  Joint 
Public  '  to  be  given  by  the  Philomathean  and  Delphi* 
Societies.     My  name  was  there ;  I  liked  to  see  it  there. 
These  Publics  are  the  great  events  of  the  term. 

A  religious  revival  was  in  progress,  where  many 
students  were  '  converted  '  or  born  again.  The  singing 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.         63 

is  always  very  effective,  and  the  influence  of  the  young 
ladies  undoubtedly  causes  many  of  the  young  men  to 
'take  a  stand.'  It  is  a  noble  and  earnest  revival  of 
religious  feeling. 

I  did  not  believe  in  a  public  profession  of  faith, 
and  was  looked  upon  as  a  very  wicked  girl.  Bob  was  a 
leader  at  prayer-meetings,  and  his  voice  was  so  eloquent 
in  his  pleadings  and  exhortations  !  I  did  my  praying 
in  such  meetings  alone  with  my  God,  and  when  those 
were  asked  to  stand  who  'felt  a  new  and -sanctified 
heart  'I  sat  still.  They  prayed  for  me  as  a  sinner. 

This  worried  Bob,  and  he  asked  me  for  an  explana- 
tion. I  gave  him  my  religious  views  in  detail. 

At  the  coming  Public  I  was  to  sing,  and  Bob  was 
to  deliver  an  oration  as  the  representative  of  the  Del- 
phi Society.  The  large  auditorium  was  thronged.  My 
song  was  a  beautiful  piece  of  plaintive  music  filled  with 
minor  chords. — '  There  is  no  hope  beyond.'  I  did  not 
think  especially  of  the  sentiment  conveyed  by  the 
words,  as  the  music  itself  was  really  beautiful.  My 
solo  preceded  Bob's  oration.  When  I  had  finished  I 
saw  that  it  had  brought  a  frown  to  the  faces  of  the  pro- 
fessors in  the  front  seats  ;  '  but  Bob's  pure  high-minded 
religious  ideas  will  please  them,'  thought  I.  His  clear 
voice  rang  out: — 

'  I  am  not  a  believer  in  lip-service  religion  and  in 
emotional  revivals,  and  will  not  serve  as  a  minister  to 
God,  because  I  have  not  felt  a  call  from  on  high.  I 
believe  in  my  God  and  Savior,  but  a  too  common 
profession  of  religion — hacking  it  about  and  putting  it 
on  and  off  like  a  cloak — destroys  its  sacredness.' 

Horrors  !     His  words  fell  like  a  bombshell.     They 


64  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

were  my  sentiments  expressed,  and  how  I  wished  I 
had  never  uttered  them  to  Bob  ! 

He  defiantly  threw  his  fists  at  the  faculty  and 
poured  forth  his  new  convictions. 

The  cloud  darkened,  for  his  oration,  with  its  inno- 
cent title,  '  Hell  and  Hypocrisy, '  which  was  supposed 
to  be  a  learned  theological  argument,  had  passed 
through  the  professors'  hands  without  reading.  He 
was  just  at  that  age  when  a  college  student  will 
approach 'any  subject  for  his  oration  and  swing  the 
world  about  his  head. 

His  oration  and  my  song  were  the  talk  and  scandal 
of  the  week.  We  expected  to  be  tried  and  convicted 
by  the  faculty  and  reprimanded  in  chapel.  Linked 
together  in  the  disgrace,  we  naturally  drifted  together 
in  sympathy  with  each  other. 

The  next  week  Professor  Garlem  called  us  into  his 
room,  No.  14. 

4  Miss  Maxwell,  for  the  safety  of  the  young  minds 
in  our  care,  and  the  religious  institutions  this  college 
represents,  it  has  been  decided  that  you  and  Mr.  Bur- 
nette  are  to  retire  for  one  term  at  least.  There  are 
only  two  weeks  more  of  the  present  term,  and  it  need 
not  be  known ' 

'  It  will  be  known  !  '  flashed  out  Bob.  'Your  big- 
otry in  trying  to  contract  and  narrow  our  minds  to  a 
single  religious  belief  is  a  disgrace.  Freedom  of 
thought ' 

'Never  mind,  now  this  has  been  decided  upon,' 
said  Professor  Garlem  firmly. 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  I  responded  sarcastically. 

'  This  girl  is  innocent,  sir ;  I  am  the  culprit,  and 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  65 

you  are  cowards  to  visit  upon  her  my  disgrace,'  said 
Bob  warmly. 

4  Be  cool,  Mr.  Burnette, '  replied  the  Professor  ; 
4  it's  all  for  the  best.  We  bear  no  malice.' 

'  No,  nor  love  of  the  human  heart  either,'  retorted 
Bob. 

Well,  of  course  I  cried  that  night.  Bob  tried  to 
comfort  me  as  he  carried  up  his  wood,  and  I  stood  on 
the  stairs  talking  to  him  until  Miss  Cooker  ordered  me 
to  my  room. 

One  term  at  college,  and  expelled  1  It  stung  my 
pride  !  How  could  I  tell  my  mother  ?  Bob  now  seemed 
to  have  claims  on  me,  and  I  could  not  help  admiring 
his  pluck. 

4  Minza,  I  am  going  to  be  a  newspaper  man — going 
to  Dakota — it's  booming;  when  I  am  settled  we' 11  be 
married. ' 

'  I  am  only  sixteen ;  besides,  my  mother ' 

4  Well,  we'll  see,'  he  replied  confidently. 

An  effort  was  made  to  keep  the  expulsion  quiet, 
but,  like  all  State  secrets,  it  oozed  through  the  key- 
holes or  somewhere,  and  all  the  students  knew  of  it. 

As  Bob  and  I  stood  on  the  rear  platform  of  the 
train  when  we  left  Cornwell  and  watched  the  old 
chapel,  the  4Sem.,'  and  Nunnery  fade  from  view,  we. 
were  sad  ;  for,  although  we  felt  glad  to  leave  in  one 
way,  there  was  a  feeling  of  banishment  about  it. 

I  never  returned  to  college.  Expelled  !  How  the 
word  made  me  shudder  !  I  felt  like  a  convict. 

I  reached  home  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  told 
mother  everything.  She,  of  course,  called  them 
'  stupids,'  and  said  I  was  right ;  but  she  did  not  like 


66  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

the  idea  of  this  Bob  being  mixed  up  with  the  matter. 
'  Where  does  he  live  ?  '  asked  mother. 
'At  Shelby ville, '  I  replied  absently. 
'That   is  where  Tim  has  gone,'  continued  mother. 
Here  my  love  troubles  began  in  earnest. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

there  was  a  good  deal  of  gossip  current  at 
Smithville  concerning  my  return  from  college,  but  it 
proved  fortunate  in  several  ways.  Father  continued 
in  poor  health,  and  mother,  with  her  teaching  and 
three  babies,  left  me  quite  enough  to  do. 

It  was  in  mid- winter  that  baby  Tod  was  taken  ill 
with  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  I  was  his  nurse,  and 
either  mother  or  I  was  always  at  his  bedside.  With  a 
suffering  babe,  you  cannot  locate  the  ailment  or  know 
always  what  to  do.  It  is  a  pitiable  sight  to  see  a 
mother  pouring  out  her  heart  and  unable  to  help  her 
suffering  child. 

How  well  I  remember  that  illness  !  When  I  made 
holes  through  the  frost  on  the  window  pane,  and 
watched  for  the  doctor  through  the  long  dismal  after- 
noon, what  a  comfort  it  was  to  see  his  portly  form 
coming  round  the  corner  !  The  crisis  was  not  passed 
with  Tod  when  Joe  began  to  complain.  His  illness 
did  not  seem  to  be  serious,  and  father  tucked  him  in 
bed  with  the  joking  remark,  '  We  shall  have  quite  a 
hospital,  after  all.'  Suddenly  I  noticed  Joe  coughing 
severely,  and  he  seemed  to  wilt  away  gradually  like  a 
rose  without  water  in  a  hot  room. 

(67) 


68  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'  Send  for  the  doctor,  quick  ! '  I  cried  to  father. 

Mother  was  soon  there  ;  the  little  heart  was  just 
beating.  '  He's  in  a  fit,'  she  cried. 

The  doctor  arrived.  '  Oh,  he  will  pull  through  all 
right,'  he  said,  as  he  measured  out  some  powders  in  a 
paper  and  labelled  them  :  '  One  every  hour.' 

How  long  that  night  seemed  as  mother  and  I 
watched  over  two  baby  cots  !  Little  Joe  was  now  the 
anxiety.  At  midnight  the  small  form  writhed  in 
another  convulsion.  '  Go,  Minza,  and  sing  grandma's 
favorite  hymn.  It  may  quiet  him,'  mother  said. 

I  sang  old  '  Nettleton : ' 

'  Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing, 
Tune  my  heart  to  sing  Thy  praise.' 

The  singing  awoke  father  and  seemed  to  soothe  the 
little  sufferer.  He  panted  in 'quick,  short  breaths, 
but  his  face  suddenly  became  livid. 

'  My  God  !  my  God  !  his  feet  are  cold.  Quick, 
quick,  the  irons  ! '  cried  father. 

'Robert,  Robert,  he's  dying  —dying! '  moaned 
mother  across  the  cot. 

Just  then  the  little  eyes  began  to  roll. 

'  Run,  Minza,  and  bring  Mrs.  Gooding,  '  said 
mother. 

The  alarm  was  given,  and  the  kind  neighbors  were 
soon  there. 

Oh,  that  first  death  scene  !  Father  was  kneeling  at 
the  bedside,  still  chafing  the  little  one's  feet ;  mother 
felt  his  pulse,  but  his  eyes  were  already  glassy. 

Little  Joe  was  dead. 

Have  you  ever  felt  that  stifling  first  flow  of  grief  ? 


A  STORY  OP  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  69 

I  thought  God  was  cruel,  and  had  punished  me  for 
my  wickedness  at  Corn  well. 

Towards  morning,  worn  out,  I  threw  myself  on  my 
bed  and  cried  out :  '  Shall  I  never  see  little  Joe  any 
more  ?  Is  he  dead  ?  No,  it  can  not  be. ' 

In  a  restless  sleep,  I  dreamed  we  were  playing 
together  at  the  old  limekiln,  with  the  waves  washing 
upon  the  white  stones,  little  Joe  and  I.  Christ 
appeared  in  long  white  raiment  and  took  us  both  to 
heaven. 

When  I  awoke — how  cruel  it  seemed  ! — I  could 
not  realize  the  truth. 

'Joe,  little  Joe  !'  I  cried  out  wildly  in  my  grief. 

From  Heaven   I  seemed  to  hear  the  only  answer — 

'  My  sissy's  tummin'  too.' 

One  never  likes  to  acknowledge  family  perferences, 
but  little  Joe  was  my  favorite.  Oh,  I  loved  him  so, 
and  now  he  was  taken !  I  tried  to  comfort  mother, 
but  her  grief  was  too  deep  to  reach  with  words.  I 
shivered  when  they  brought  that  little  white  coffin  and 
placed  it  on  two  chairs  in  the  parlor. 

The  fumes  of  saltpetre  filled  the  room,  and  brought 
back  that  death  scene  for  months  after. 

The  funeral  was  held  at  the  house.  Dear  old  Mr. 
Frazer's  voice  was  so  comforting  !  His  words  soothed ; 
there  seemed  to  be  a  hope  beyond — that  little  Joe  had 
merely  gone  out  to  play,  and  would  soon  return. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  was  dark  and  dismal ;  it 
had  been  raining  very  hard,  and  made  the  pure  white 
snow  a  slimy  5'ellow  slush.  The  little  coffin  was 
draped  with  evergreen  boughs  from  the  trees  in  the 
front  garden,  under  which  little  Joe  used  to  play. 


70  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

Mother  and  I,  hidden  behind  heavy  crape  veils,  sat 
near  it.  The  littte  face  was  just  visible,  and  seemed 
wrapped  in  peaceful  slumber. 

'  There  beamed  a  smile, 
So  fixed,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.    He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  heaven.' 

The  house  was  thronged  with  friends  and  neigh- 
bors, and  scores  stood  outside  in  the  drizzling  rain. 
What  a  breathless  silence  before  the  service,  alone 
with  the  dead ! 

They  sang  little  Joe's  favorite  song,  '  Shall  We 
Gather  at  the  River  ? '  slowly,  softly,  sweetly,  and  the 
only  accompaniment  was  the  patter  of  the  rain  on  the 
roof,  like  a  fugue  of  falling  tears.  A  short  prayer,  a 
Scripture  lesson,  and  a  few  words  spoken  direct  to  our 
hearts  of  the  hope  of  again  meeting  little  Joe,  made  up 
the  simple  service. 

Oh,  that  last  kiss  of  our  dead  !  What  household 
has  not  suffered  it  ?  It  is  this  moment  that  breaks  the 
mother's  heart,  when  she  thinks  of  her  child  in  the 
cold  and  lonely  grave.  As  long  as  the  corpse  is  in  the 
house  she  is  not  so  heart-broken,  but  it  is  when  the 
lid  is  last  sealed  that  the  mother's  heart-fountains 
burst  forth. 

Standing  about  the  little  grave,  we  heard  the  clods 
of  earth  fall  upon  the  coffin.  Would  it  awaken  little 
Joe  ?  How  I  wanted  to  stop  the  old  sexton  ! 

'Oh,  I  can  never  leave  him  here  !'  I  cried,  and 
burst  from  the  carriage,  as  we  were  turning  away. 

'Come,  Minza,  be  calm/  said  father.  'Mother 
needs  your  comfort.  Remember  others,  Minza, '  and 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  71 

he  carried  me  back   to   the  closed  carriage.     '  Well, 
Robert,  we  have  her  left,'    said   mother,    pressing  me 
tight. 

For  years  after  I  could  not  visit  little  Joe's  grave. 
Mother  and  father  used  to  go  every  Sunday  with 
flowers,  but  I  never  could  endure  to  bring  back  the 
memories  of  that  death-scene.  I  could  gaze  on  the 
enlarged  picture  in  the  parlor,  and  the  sweet  baby 
eyes  that  looked  down  upon  me — mother's  own  eyes 
— but  I  always  thought  of  that  midnight  when  I  could 
almost  see  his  little  soul  floating  away  to  heaven  and 
joining  the  angel  choirs. 

Time  may  wear  away  the  pangs,  the  paroxysms  of 
grief,  but  to-day  my  heart  is  touched  and  purified  by 
the  tender  memories  of  little  Joe. 

In  later  years  I  was  able  to  bring  myself  to  see  that 
little  grave,  for  when  I  die  I  want  to  lie  beside  the 
little  form  I  loved  so  well. 

Life's  first  real  grief ! — the  Minor  Chord  was  struck  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THAT  spring  the  music-shop  was  sold,  and  the  money 
from  mother's  music  lessons  was  our  entire  income. 
Father  remained  poorly,  and  now  grief  and  worry 
began  to  undermine  mother's  health.  One  day  Dr. 
Waddington  called  and  looked  over  his  spectacles, 
inquiring  of  father : — 

'  Robert,  were  you  in  the  Army  ?' 

'  Yes,  42nd  Volunteers.' 

'  Were  you  ever  wounded  ?' 

'  Yes,  several  times — at  Vicksburg  and  Shiloh.' 

'  I  thought  so.  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  are 
suffering  from  those  wounds  to-day  ?' 

'  Tut,  tut,  man,  I  got  over  it,  and  am  as  well  and 
strong  as  ever. ' 

'Yes,  you  are,'  said  the  Doctor  sarcastically.  '  But 
you  come  down  to  the  office,  and  let  me  make  an 
examination.' 

That  afternoon  father  went  down,  and  the  doctor 
evidently  found  traces  of  a  rebel  bullet. 

Dr.  Waddington  waddled  down  to  our  house  late 
in  the  evening,  very  much  excited.  He  took  off  his 
worn  silk  hat,  and  wiped  his  bald  head  reflectively. 

(72) 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIMA   DONNA.  73 

'  Mrs.  Maxwell,  can  3-011  put  some  sense  into  that 
man's  head  ?' 

'How's  that,  Doctor  ?' 

'  Robert  deserves  a  pension  for  his  army  service, 
and  not  only  that,  but  back  pay  as  well.' 

'  Yes  ;  but,  Doctor,  you  cannot  get  a  pension  with- 
out political  influence,  and  you  know  Robert  is  not 
much  of  a  politic! an,'  she  replied  quizzically. 

'  Well,  that  may  be, '  continued  the  Doctor  ;  '  but 
it's  worth  trying  for.' 

'  All  right,  he'll  do  it.'  When  mother  said  so, 
that  settled  it. 

The  application  was  made. 

The  formal  papers  were  sent  to  the  young  Con- 
gressman representing  our  district.  He  replied 
promptly,  stating  that  he  remembered  meeting  father, 
and  should  '  give  the  matter  immediate  and  personal 
attention. ' 

'That's  the  way  he  writes  to  all  of  them,'  said 
mother  ironically. 

We  thought  nothing  more  about  it,  and  had  little 
hope ;  but  one  morning,  when  I  was  helping  father 
with  the  housework,  and  mother  was  busy  giving  a 
lesson,  a  telegram  was  handed  me. 

'  This  must  be  a  mistake,  I  don't  receive  telegrams,' 
I  said  to  the  boy. 

'  No,  it  isn't ;  I  knows  my  business,'  he  answered 
saucily. 

There  it  was,  addressed  :     '  MINZA  MAXWELL.' 

I  tore  it  open  hastily.  It  was  dated  'Washington, 
D.  C.,'  and  marked  D.  H.,  meaning  'Dead  Head  :' — 


74  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'Your  father's  pension  and  back  pay  granted. 
Letter  follows.  Congratulations. 

'THOMAS  BAYUNG,  M.  C., 

'  Per  TIM,  Secy.' 

'Tim!  Could  it  be  Tim  Rathbone? '  I  said 
excitedly. 

'We  have  a  friend  at  court,'  said  mother  smilingly. 

We  could  hardly  wait  for  that  letter.  Father  insisted 
that  there  must  be  an  error  somewhere,  and  even 
mother  did  not  seem  to  have  much  confidence  in  the 
news. 

During  the  week  a  large  fat  envelope  came  with- 
out any  stamps  on.  Inside  were  numerous  blank 
forms  to  fill,  and  the  information  stated:  '  Robert 
Maxwell,  Co.  M.,  42nd  Iowa  Volunteers,  granted  a 
pension  of  six  dollars  per  month  and  back  pay 
amounting  to  $1,276.60.' 

I  screamed  with  joy.  We  were  no  longer  one 
thousand  dollars  in  debt  I  That  evening  we  were 
busy  planning  what  to  do  with  the  money. 

'  It  seems  so  heavenly, '  I  cried,  and  went  to  the 
piano  and  played  the  gayest  waltz  I  knew.  Then  I 
hugged  my  violin  and  galloped  off  a  mazurka.  As 
the  revelry  of  music  increased,  my  eyes  suddenly  fell 
on  that  little  baby  face  looking  down  from  the  corner. 

'  O  little  Joe  !  what  is  all  this  to  us  now  that  we 
have  lost  you  !' 

The  family  council  lasted  long  into  the  night. 
Mother  wanted  to  use  the  money  to  complete  my  musi- 
cal studies,  and  father  agreed.  At  first  I  wanted  to 
re-invest  it  in  a  business,  but  when  I  caught  mother's 
poor  wan  face  a  suggestion  occurred  to  me. 


A  STORY   OP  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  75 

'  Mother,  you  and  father  must  start  next  week  for 
England — visit  dear  old  grandpa.  It  will  do  you 
good,  and  break ' 

'No,  no,  dear,  we  cannot  think  of  it.  You  must 
complete  your  studies, '  insisted  mother. 

'  Then,  Maggie,  we  must  pay  our  debts — one  thou- 
sand dollars,'  interposed  father. 

'  Now,  Robert,  you  must  keep  still.  This  money 
shall  not  pay  a  penny  of  it, '.  said  mother  firmly. 

'  But  is  it  honest  ? — what  will  people  say  ?'  pro- 
tested father. 

'  Never  mind,  let  me  manage  that ;'  and  mother 
managed  it. 

It  was  finally  settled  that  mother  was  to  take  little 
Tod  with  her,  and  Jimmy  was  to  remain  with  me,  and 
they  were  to  start  the  following  week  to  visit  the 
scenes  of  father's  childhood  in  dear  old  England. 

Of  course  the  village  of  Smithville  talked  and 
gossiped — '  Maxwell  ought  to  pay  his  debts.' 

We  had  become  nerved  to  facing  contrary  winds  of 
public  opinion. 

Here  again  was  the  breaking  of  home  ties,  and, 
although  I  was  enthusiastic  about  their  going,  it  was 
a  hard  struggle. 

The  same  old  midnight  train  was  to  take  them 
away.  We  tried  to  be  cheerful  that  evening,  but  our 
faces  reflected  serious  forebodings.  At  the  last  all 
was  bustle  and  hurry.  Again  came  the  parting  kiss. 
"Little  Tod  chattered  with  delight  and  was  for  ever  in 
the  way,  and  Jimmy  cried,  but  the  'bus  was  waiting. 

It  was  May,  and  the  lilacs  and  snowballs  were  in 
bloom,  their  fragrance  filling  the  air. 


76  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

The  next  day  the  old  home  seemed  desolate. 
Jimmy  kept  me  busy,  and  was  soon  off  to  school.  It 
is  always  those  left  at  home  who  most  keenly  feel  the 
pangs  of  parting. 

How  anxiously  I  watched  the  newspapers  for  the 
arrival  of  the  steamer  1  It  was  overdue,  and  I  pic- 
tured a  shipwreck  in  mid-ocean.  Angela  was  staying 
with  me,  and  two  merry  little  housemaids  were  we 
until  the  thought  of  the  steamer  being  overdue 
sobered  us. 

One  day  Angela  came  running  from  the  village 
postomce.  '  It's  there,  it's  there ! '  she  cried  far 
down  the  street,  and  a  heavy  load  was  lifted  from  our 
hearts.  I  kissed  Jim's  jam-covered  face  over  and 
over  again.  The  steamer  had  reached  Southampton. 

They  were  to  be  gone  three  months,  and  it  seemed 
like  an  age.  In  the  meantime,  Bob's  letters  arrived 
frequently.  He  was  a  hard-headed,  practical,  busi- 
ness-like fellow,  and  always  wrote  sensibly.  A  few 
weeks  later,  a  short  note  from  Tim  announced  that  he 
would  call  the  following  week. 

Here  was  a  dilemma  ! 

I  told  Angela  all  about  it,  and  insisted  that  she 
must  take  one  of  my  lovers  off  my  hands. 

4  Which  one  ?'  she  asked. 

'It  doesn't  matter,'  I  replied  desperately.  Tim 
had  fresh  claims  on  me  now,  if  we  did  quarrel  in  our 
letters,  and  had,  indeed,  ceased  correspondence  until 
the  pension  telegram  was  received. 

Then,  too,  Tim  was  my  first  sweetheart,  although 
Robert  seemed  to  be  taking  matters  for  granted. 

The  next  week  I  was  reading  one  of  Bob's  long 


A   STORY    OF    A    PRIMA    DONNA.  77 

letters  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  Tim. 

I  felt  fluttered  for  a  moment,  and  before  I  could 
answer  he  kissed  me.  When  I  found  my  tongue,  I 
tried  to  thank  him  for  his  kindly  interest  on  behalf  of 
father's  pension. 

'  Don't  mention  it,  Meg  ;  let's  take  a  walk  down  to 
the  old  limekiln.  Yes,  bring  Jimmy  along,  if ' 

Every  spot  about  the  old  limekiln  seemed  to  retain 
its  happy  memories. 

'Minza,  you  are  growing  beautiful.  Do  you  still 
sing?'  said  Tim,  when  Jimmy  was  at  a  safe  distance. 

'A  little.  To  put  the  babies  to  sleep.  Don't  I, 
Jimkins  ? '  I  said,  appealing  to  the  young  rascal ;  but 
he  was  out  of  hearing. 

'  I'll  be  Jimmy,  Meg — please  !' 

'  Oh,  you're  too  big  now.  Besides,  Tim,  you've — 
you've  got  a  moustache.' 

'  Yes,  you  remember,  Meg,  that  was  my  greatest 
ambition  as  a  boy.  When  I  had  a  moustache  like 
Judge  Buggins,  then — hullo — who's  coming?' 

Down  the  path  from  the  house  came  Fred 
Burroughes. 

'That's  Mr.  Burroughes,  my  friend.' 
'  Ah,  it's  Mr.  Burroughes,  your  friend,   is  it  ?'  said 
Tim  sourly. 

I  advanced  to  meet  Fred,  and  when  he  bent  to  kiss 
me  I  shrank  back  and  looked  at  Tim. 

'Why,  Minza,  what's  the  matter,  little  one?'  said 
Fred. 

I  could  not  answer.  Those  deep  blue  eyes  seemed 
to  express  his  pain  and  read  my  thoughts. 


78  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'Well,  I'll  not  bother,'  said  Fred,  as  he  started  to 

go. 

'Tim,  this  is  Mr.  Burroughes — Mr.  Burroughes, 
Mr.  Rathbone, '  said  I,  introducing  them. 

They  bowed  stiffly,  and  if  I  had  not  been  so  sorry 
for  Fred,  I  should  have  burst  out  laughing  at  their 
awkwardness. 

Fred  left  us.  I  called  after  him,  but  he  was  out  of 
hearing. 

Tim  and  I  were  children  again. 

Fred  came  to  the  house  later,  and  with  the  help  of 
Angela  we  spent  a  pleasant  afternoon  with  our  music. 

Like  all  young  lovers,  Tim  and  I  indulged  in  an 
occasional  quarrel.  All  persons  do  who  are  constantly 
together.  It  is  human  to  wear  off  the  rough  edges  of 
temper  on  one  another  now  and  then.  As  my  house- 
work took  a  great  deal  of  my  time,  Angela  and  Tim 
were  thrown  together  more  than  I  really  liked, 
although  I  had  asked  her,  as  my  younger  sister,  to 
entertain  him. 

A  few  weeks  more,  and  father  and  mother  and 
little  Tod  would  return. 

The  day  before  July  4,  when  the  village  was  pre- 
paring for  one  of  the  real  old-fashioned  celebrations 
of  our  national  birthday,  I  wandered  with  Jimmy 
through  the  grove  to  the  limekiln.  During  the  after- 
noon the  authorities  had  arranged  temporary  seats  in 
the  grove  for  the  exercises  on  the  morrow,  and  built  a 
portentous-looking  platform  for  the  speakers. 

The  lemonade  booths  covered  with  boughs  and  the 
different  amusement  arena  and  shooting  galleries  were 
striking  camp.  The  speakers'  platform  looked  very 


A   STORY    OF   A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  79 

imposing.  Tim  was  to  read  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence and  I  was  to  sing  '  Hail  Columbia  I '  I 
thought  how  handsome  Tim  with  his  curly  hair  would 
look,  and  I  pictured  him  in  the  future  as  a  great  states- 
man. The  village  brass  band  were  holding  their  last 
rehearsal  in  the  Town  Hall,  and  the  bass  solo  and 
'afterparts'  were  nearly  raising  the  roof.  The  sky 
was  clear,  and  the  setting  sun  behind  the  purple  grove 
was  sending  up  spears  of  sunshine  from  the  foliage 
that  lined  the  horizon.  It  was  to  be  a  typical  Spread- 
eagle  American  4th  of  July  and  the  British  lion's  tail 
was  to  be  properly  twisted. 

I  was  happy  just  then,  and  expected  Tim  shortly. 
He  came,  and  somehow  I  felt  like  teasing — and  I 
teased  him  all  the  evening.  He  tried  to  be  serious 
and  see  me  alone.  I  showed  him  Bob's  photograph 
and  talked  of  how  good  Mr.  Burroughes  had  been. 
He  took  Angela  home  and  left  me  in  a  very  bad 
humor. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  festivities  of  the  following  day  began  with  the 
booming  of  cannon  and  the  snapping  of  fire  crackers. 
The  parade  was  imposing,  and  Angela  really  looked 
beautiful  as  '  Columbia'  in  the  float  with  forty-six  little 
girls  about  her  representing  each  of  the  States.  The 
exercises  passed  off  smoothly.  Tim  read  splendidly 
and  was  applauded  to  the  echo,  but  we  had  scarcely 
spoken  to  each  other  all  day. 

That  evening  a  company  of  young  friends  sat  with 
me  on  the  veranda  watching  the  fireworks ;  I  wondered 
why  Tim  did  not  come.  At  last  the  finishing  'good- 
night '  was  fired.  Two  figures  came  down  the  path — 
Angela  and  Tim. 

'Where  have  you  naughty  folk  been?'  I  asked 
jokingly. 

'We've  been  married,'  spoke  up  Tim  defiantly. 

It  was  a  blow  which  staggered  me.  I  thought 
they  were  Coking,  and  kissed  Angela ;  but  another 
glance  at  Tim's  face  told  me  it  was  true. 

The  last  dying  embers  of  the  fireworks  said  '  good- 
night.' 

I  turned  to  go  into  the  house.  It  was  a  'good- 
night' to  youth's  young  love  dream. 

(So) 


A   STORY   OP   A   PRIMA    DONNA.  8l 

1  Good-night, '  I  gasped 

'Why,  Meg,  won't  you  congratulate  me?'  pleaded 
Angela  innocently.  She  had  taken  my  lover. 

Tim  still  looked  defiant  as  they  left  in  the  darkness. 

My  heart  was  broken.  'Alone,  alone,'  seemed  the 
solemn  minor  echo  of  the  night  breezes,  as  I  entered 
the  silent  darkness  of  the  home. 

'  Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine  ? 
Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee  ! 
I  do  not  know  thee — nor  what  deeds  are  thine  : 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine  ? 
Naught  see  I  permanent  or  sure  in  thee  ! ' 

When  I  awoke  the  next  morning  I  again  thought 
it  surely  must  be  a  joke  that  they  had  played  upon  me, 
but  it  proved  to  be  a  reality. 

A  large  number  of  American  marriages  originate 
from  motives  of  spite  or  lonesomeness  rather  than  from 
love.  We  seldom  marry  our  real  sweethearts.  I^ove  ! 
What  is  love  ?  Certainly,  it  has  never  yet  been  anal- 
yzed in  words.  But  when  Tim  was  beyond  my  reach 
I  thought  I  loved  him,  and  especially  when  I  fancied 
he  had  married  Angela  out  of  pique. 

That  night  I  was  ready  to  offer  myself  as  a  foreign 
missionary  to  go  among  the  heathen,  or  to  join  the 
Salvation  Army. 

A  day  or  so  before  I  expected  father  and  mother  to 
return,  Bob  arrived. 

The  same  old,  reliant,  conceited  and  energetic  Bob. 

He  kissed  me,  and  said  coolly  that  he  had  been 
arranging  to  start  a  newspaper  in  Dakota. 

'  Will  you  be  my  assistant  editor?'  he  said  calmly, 
whiffing  a  cigar. 


82  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'That's  scarcely  romantic,'  I  insisted. 

'No,  but  it's  business.  Minza,  there's  no  foolish- 
ness about  me.  I  am  dead  in  earnest.  You're  my 
only  hope  in  life ;  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  That  rhymes. 

It's  not  a  great  distinction,  but  then '  and  his  voice 

died  away,  as  if  in  thought. 

There  was  nothing  impulsive  about  it,  and  the 
memory  of  Tim's  defiant  look  flashed  on  me. 

'Yes,'  I  said;  and  he  kissed  me  without  further 
argument. 

Of  course  it  was  not  such  a  courtship  as  I  had 
dreamed  of;  but  I  thought,  as  girls  have,  to  be  married 
some  time,  I  might  as  well  make  a  beginning. 

I  knew  Bob  loved  his  mother,  was  kind,  pure,  and 
noble  in  heart ;  and  I  gave  him  my  hand. 

'You  make  me  so  happy,  Minza  !' 

Just  then  Jimmy  came  in  crying,  with  a  splinter  in 
his  toe,  and  it  stopped  further  love-making. 

Father  and  mother  arrived  earlier  than  I  had 
expected,  right  in  the  middle  of  my  preparations  to 
welcome  them.  What  a  happy  meeting  !  I  hugged 
mother  and  little  Tod  till  they  fairly  gasped,  and 
father  looked  so  ruddy  and  strong !  Mother,  bless  her 
heart!  was  young  again.  There  was  the  old  love  sparkle 
in  her  eyes,  the  dimple  had  come  once  more  into  her 
cheek,  and  we  were  very  happy  that  night  !  L,ittle 
Tod  had  grown  as  tall  as  Jimmy,  and  was  as  saucy  as 
a  parrot. 

Mother  sang  many  of  her  old  songs. 

'There,  Meggie,  is  Helen  Martin  when  a  lonely 
young  Englishman  fell  in  love  with  her,'  father 
remarked,  looking  at  her  fondly. 


A   STORY   OF   A    PRIMA   DONNA.  83 

'Oh,  the  hollowed  glow  of  a  happy  heart ! 
Nor  wealth  nor  fame  can  banish  its  lustre.' 

Such  a  busy  time  mother  and  I  had  talking  !  She 
told  me  of  Paris,  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  of  Covent 
Garden  ;  and  inspired  me  still  further  with  that  great 
ambition  which  I  could  never  resist — to  be  a  great 
prima  donna. 

Her  trunk  was  full  of  little  presents  for  us  all,  and 
a  generous  supply  of  guide-books,  photos,  and  sou- 
venirs. The  twelve  hundred  and  seventy-six  dollars 
and  sixty  cents  was  gone,  and  we  were  still  one  thous- 
and dollars  in  debt ;  but  let  the  creditors  whistle  now: 
we  were  happy. 

'  They  shall  be  paid,  but  they  must  cultivate 
patience, '  said  mother,  smiling. 

She  was  soon  actively  at  work  organizing  new 
music  classes,  and  having  been  '  abroad, '  she  enjoyed 
an  unrivaled  prestige. 

'  Now,  my  Minza  must  study  to  go  abroad  too, ' 
said  mother  enthusiastically  one  day. 

'No,  mother,  I  never  can  leave  you.' 

'  But,  my  child,  your  voice,  when  cultivated,  will 
bring  you  fortune  and  fame.' 

'I  want  neither,  now  we  are  happy;  besides — 
besides — I'm — I'm — going  to  be — married  !' 

'Minza!'  gasped  mother.  'All  our  hopes  are 
clashed.  O  Minza  !  how  could  you  do  it,  and  not  let 
me  know  ?  Cannot  it  be ' 

'  Mamma,  it  is  settled,'  I  replied. 

Father  came  in  just  then,  having  overheard  us.  He 
was  thunderstruck. 


84  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'  My  little  girl,  only  seventeen,  and  talking  of 
being  married  !' 

I  was  glad  they  knew  it  now. 

'  And  to  Tim  ?'  continued  mother  inquiringly. 

That  question  cut  me  and  I  felt  myself  growing 
pale. 

'  No— he  has  married  Angela.' 

*  My  dear  girl,  and  you ' 

With  a  mother's  quick  eye  she  read  it  all. 

'No,  mother;  it's  to  Bob  Burnette,  the  dearest, 
best  fellow  on  earth.  You'll  love  him,  and  he'll  soon 
pay  that  one  thousand  dollars, '  I  continued,  trying  to 
be  enthusiastic. 

'  My  daughter,'  continued  mother  sternly,  '  have 
you  sold  yourself  again  for  us  ?' 

'Oh,  no,  you'll  like  Bob,  mother;  in  fact,  you  must 
like  him.' 

But  she  never  did.  She  looked  upon  him  as  a 
robber. 

Bob  called  soon  after,  and  father  tried  to  be  cheer- 
ful and  entertaining  as  a  prospective  father-in-law ; 
mother  was  cold  and  reserved,  but  she  never  remon- 
strated again  with  me. 

Poor  Bob  !  I  saw  he  felt  it,  and  I  pitied  him  the 
more,  and  admired  his  manly  ways  ;  for  Bob  was  a 
splendid  type  of  pure  manhood,  and  that  is  saying  a 
great  deal  in  these  days,  when  so  many  young  men, 
'after  sowing  their  wild  oats,'  finish  by  marrying 
innocent  girls. 

We  were  busy  with  the  preparations  for  the  mar- 
riage. Bob  had  established  his  newspaper  in  Dakota, 


A  STORY  OP   A   PRIMA   DONNA.  85 

and  we  were  to  be  married  in  October  and  go  there  to 
live. 

It  was  a  hard  trial  to  mother,  as  it  is  to  all  mothers 
to  give  up  their  daughters  just  when  they  find  so 
much  comfort  in  their  companionship.  I  could 
scarcely  realize  it  to  be  true.  A  girl  about  to  be  mar- 
ried has  the  great  problem  of  her  life  and  destiny 
before  her. 

We  were  to  be  married  in  the  dear  old  church,  and 
the  night  before  I  wandered  down  to  the  old  limekiln. 
The  leaves  were  falling,  the  autumn  foliage  enveloped 
the  old  trees  I  loved  so  well.  It  was  now  a  real  fare- 
well. I  came  to  them  as  a  girl — to-morrow  I  stepped 
into  wifehood. 

Bob  met  me  at  the  gate  when  I  returned. 

'  What,  pet  !  so  sad  before  your  wedding-day  ?' 

'  Yes,  you  do  not  know  what  a  girl  gives  up  when 
she  is  married,  and ' 

'  Minza, '  he  said,  his  honest  eyes  looking  deep  into 
mine,  '  I  will  not  take  a  captive.  I  love  you — my  life 
is  yours — married  or  not  married.  We  were  born  for 
each  other.' 

Oh,  why  didn't  he  rage,  and  fume,  and  fight,  as 
they  do  on  the  stage  or  in  story-books,  when  they  are 
in  love?  It  was  his  perfect  perfection  that  I  did  not 
admire — but  his  honest,  warm  heart  was  so  true  ! 

The  dear  old  minister,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Frazer,  came 
from  a  distant  charge  to  marry  us.  The  ceremony  was 
short,  and  our  clasped  hands  trembled  as  a  response 
when  the  final  words  were  pronounced. 

The  'Wedding  March'  was  played  as  we  walked 
out  of  the  church,  but  it  seemed  like  a  funeral  dirge. 


86  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

Alone  together,  Bob  grasped  me. 

'  My  own  Minza  I     My  wife  now  ! '     • 

The  realization  burst  upon  me — a  wife  ! 

At  the  wedding  supper  everyone  seemed  sad. 
Mother's  eyes  were  red,  and  she  could  scarcely  speak. 

Mother  and  daughter  were  drifting — drifting  apart  ! 

The  little  old  station  platform  was  thronged  with 
friends  to  see  us  off;  the  train  was  an  hour  late,  which 
made  it  rather  awkward  for  me.  '  Will  it  never  come  ?  ' 
I  thought,  as  a  curious  crowd  pushed  forward  to  '  see 
the  bride.' 

Neither  Tim  nor  Angela  was  there,  though  they  had 
stood  in  the  back  part  of  the  church  during  the  cere- 
mony. 

Sister  of  childhood  and  love's  own  sweetheart  !  and 
no  farewell  from  either  1 

A  shower  of  rice  and  old  shoes  made  the  occupants 
of  the  car  look  at  us  as  museum  curiosities. 

'  Now,  we  won't  act  like  a  bridal  couple,  will  we, 
Bob  ?  '  I  whispered. 

'No,'  he  said  heroically,  trying  to  look  as  uncon- 
cerned as  an  old  married  man.  But  it  did  not  last 
long.  I  soon  fell  asleep  in  his  arms,  dreaming  of  those 
dear  ones  at  home. 

In  a  short  time  I  learned  to  say  '  My  husband, '  but 
*  Bob  '  always  sounded  better. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN  ordinary  romantic  careers  the  marriage  is  the  cli- 
max, and  'they  lived  happily  ever  after.'  In  my  life, 
marriage  was  where  real  life  began. 

We  arrived  at  Fargo,  Dakota,  during  a  light  snow- 
fall, with  the  wind  whistling  a  dismal  song  about  the 
car.  The  landscape  was  dreary,  and  made  me  feel 
homesick,  but  Bob's  cheeriness  was  irresistible. 

Yes,  I  was  a  wife. 

We  traveled  up  the  broad  Red  River  Valley,  dotted 
with  shanties  on  each  quarter  section  of  land,  and 
stacks  of  grain  which  looked  like  Esquimaux  snow- 
houses.  We  stopped  at  many  straggling  and  deserted 
little  stations,  with  elevators  and  grain  warehouses 
clustered  about  hungry-looking  lumber  and  coal  yards. 
We  arrived  at  Boomtown  at  last.  There  were  three  or 
four  handsome  brick  buildings  and  a  large  hotel  in  the 
village,  Bob's  office  sign,  'The  Weekly  Times,' 
blazed  out  in  bright  gold  letters  from  a  neat-looking 
little  wooden  shanty.  We  drove  there  first.  It  was 
not  an  inspiring  sight.  A  yellow-haired  Swedish 
boy  with  an  ink-smeared  face  sat  perched  on  a  stool, 
'  throwing  in  '  type.  The  old  Washington  hand-press, 
with  its  fierce-looking  lever,  was  in  one  corner,  with  the 
gravestone  ink-slab  at  the  side.  All  the  walls  were 

(87) 


88  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

frescoed  with  inky  finger-daubs,  and  decorated  with 
faded  circus  and  show  lithographs  and  'dates.' 

There  was  a  frightful  odor  of  benzine  about  the 
room,  and  the  old  job  presses  looked  as  if  they  were 
hungry  for  a  form  to  squeeze. 

The  residents  of  Boomtown  were  an  unusually 
intelligent  and  bright  class  of  people,  and  gave  us  a 
very  cordial  welcome.  The  burden  of  conversation, 
day  and  night,  was  '  Boomtown' s  great  future— when 
thq  new  railroad  arrived.' 

Bob  showed  me  the  flaming  maps  indicating  Boom- 
town  as  quite  the  centre  of  the  universe,  and  we  had  a 
glorious  future  painted  for  us  in  our  fancy. 

The  wild  blizzards,  raging  that  winter  for  days  at  a 
time,  made  our  life  rather  dreary  and  lonesome  ;  but  I 
soon  became  quite  an  accomplished  editor's  wife, 
addressing  the  wrappers  and  papers  on  publication 
days,  mixing  the  paste,  and  picking  up  the  local  cur- 
rent gossip,  as  follows  : — 

'Mrs.  Mayor  Snoddus  drove  out  yesterday  with 
Mrs.  Biff.' 

'  Mrs.  Jones  went  to  Babtown  in  the  afternoon,  and 
was  accompanied  by  Hon.  Fillipers  Jones. ' 

'  Miss  Sally  Snippuns  has  a  bad  whitlow  on  her 
left  hand.' 

'  Mr.  Joe  Waterlog  has  been  under  the  weather  a 
few  days  this  week.' 

Do  you  laugh  at  this  as  silly  ?  It  is  much  the 
same  news  as  London  newspapers  give  concerning 
royalty.  In  America,  merit  is  worshipped  as  an  aris- 
tocracy ;  the  people  are  the  royalty,  and  each  little 
country  paper  has  its  court  of  patrons  to  look  after. 


A   STORY    OF   A    PRIMA    DONNA.  89 

The  best  crop  raised  in  Dakota  is  not  wheat,  but 
politics.  The  long  winter  evenings,  spent  by  the  men 
hugging  red-hot  stoves  are  certain  to  breed  mischief. 
The  lone  settler  on  the  dreary  plains  ! — God  help  his 
poor  wife  !  No  wonder  the  insane  asylums  are  filled 
with  '  only  a  farmer's  wife.'  The  tedious  monotony 
or  their  existence  must  be  crazing,  and  this  isolation 
accounts  for  much  of  the  discontent  among  American 
farmers.  In  Europe  they  cluster  in  villages,  and, 
man  being  naturally  a  social  being,  the  convivial 
greeting  alleviates  the  monotony  of  his  existence,  and 
makes  him  more  contented  than  his  American  cousin. 

In  the  early  days  of  its  first  settlement,  Boomtown 
had  been  located  at  the  county  seat  of  Halkins  County. 
Since  then  a  second  large  railroad  corporation  had 
extended  a  branch  of  their  line  into  the  southern  part 
of  the  county,  and  located  there  a  terminal  town  site, 
which  was  owned  by  officials  of  the  railroad.  These 
branch  corporations  and  wrecking  schemes,  with  their 
inflated  water  stock  bubbles,  account  for  many  of  the 
large  fortunes  gathered  so  quickly  by  American  rail- 
road magnates. 

The  new  town  of  Courtville  was  named  after  one 
of  the  magnates,  and  it  aspired  to  take  the  county  seat 
away  from  Boomtown.  A  flaw  was  discovered  in  the 
first  proceedings  in  establishing  the  county  seat,  and  a 
fight  was  made  in  the  legislature  at  Bismarck  to  get  a 
special  law  passed  to  re-submit  the  matter  to  a  vote  of 
the  people.  The  plot  was,  that  in  extending  its  line 
the  railroad  corporation  could  import  enough  sovereign 
American  voters — that  is,  ignorant  Italians  and  others, 


90  THE   MINOR    CHORD. 

temporary  railroad  laborers — to  carry  the  election  and 
secure  the  county  seat. 

Boomtown  was  aroused  ;  and  as  Bob  was  looked 
upon  as  a  leader  in  public  matters,  we  were  to  go  tc 
Bismarck  to  try  and  check  the  infamous  legislation. 
After  we  arrived,  Bob  made  a  careful  poll  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  legislature,  in  order  to  learn  who  were  for 
and  who  were  against  the  scheme.  He  found  the 
railroad  represented  by  a  powerful  and  wealthy  lobby 
party,  and  struggled  along ;  while  I  tried  to  assist  by 
influencing  the  legislators  at  the  Governor's  receptions. 
But  ladies  are  not  the  power  in  American  affairs  of 
state  that  they  were  in  the  days  of  the  Bourbons  in 
France. 

Champagne  suppers  were  given  by  the  lobby  party, 
and  each  side  competed  for  every  doubtful  vote.  The 
critical  time  was  drawing  near.  Bob  polled  his  votes 
every  day,  and  at  this  time  there  were  two  majority  on 
our  side  against  the  bill.  On  the  day  for  the  final 
voting,  I  went  to  the  State  House,  through  a  blinding 
blizzard,  and  sat  in  the  galleries,  almost  the  only  lady 
present. 

'  If  we  can  keep  our  men  in  line,  we  are  all  right, ' 
said  Bob  excitedly. 

The  '  ayes  '  and  '  nays  '  were  called.  There  was 
breathless  silence.  I  was  about  to  leave — satisfied 
that  Boomtown  was  victorious — when  I  saw  two  of  our 
men  slip  quietly  out  at  a  side  door.  I  rushed  down 
into  the  corridor,  and  in  the  dark  corners  saw  the 
portly  lobbyist,  Colonel  Malsey,  who  represented  the 
railroad,  hand  both  of  the  men  a  roll  suspiciously  like 
bank-notes.  They  quietly  slipped  back  to  their  seats, 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  91 

but  the  lobbyist  never  appeared  in  the  hall.  The 
names  of  these  two  were  reached  near  the  end  of  the 
roll-call. 

'Yea,'  responded  one. 

'  Yea, '  echoed  the  other. 

Boomtown  was  defeated  by  its  own  neighbors — 
representatives  from  an  adjoining  county. 

The  Boomtown  men  cried,  '  Bribery  ! '  An  investi- 
gation was  ordered,  and  Colonel  Malsey  was  impli- 
cated ;  but  he  proved  an  alibi  by  seven  reputable 
witnesses  that  he  had  not  been  near  the  State  House 
on  the  day  the  vote  was  taken. 

I  knew  he  lied;  but  what  was  a  woman's  word 
against  seven  '  reputable  '  witnesses  ?  I  never  told 
Bob  about  seeing  Colonel  Malsey,  and  was  very  happy 
when  we  left  Bismarck  that  night. 

The  election  occurred  the  following  autumn.  Bob 
travelled  miles  and  miles  over  the  prairie  country 
behind  broncho  ponies,  visiting  each  farmer  and  voter 
personally,  and,  sometimes,  I  am  afraid,  like  the 
opposing  side,  gave  them  a  taste  from  his  bottle  of 
'cold  tea.'  I  remained  in  the  office  meantime  editing 
the  paper,  and  facing  irate  readers  whom  Bob  had 
'  blistered  '  in  the  previous  issue.  It  was  an  exciting 
time.  The  outlook  was  bright  for  Boomtown  winning, 
as  it  was  more  centrally  situated  in  the  county  than 
Courtville. 

Election  day  arrived,  and  never  can  I  forget  how 
pale  and  wan  Bob  looked  as  the  fatal  day  approached. 
He  owned  an  interest  in  Boomtown  town  site,  and  it 
was  a  battle  for  his  home  and  all  that  he  possessed. 
He  mortgaged  the  printing  office  to  raise  money  tor 


92  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

the  campaign.  The  organization  was  thought  to  be 
perfect,  as  Boomtown  men  were  stationed  at  every 
polling  precinct  on  the  day  of  election  to  watch  the 
enemy  and  our  interests. 

The  returns  came  in  ?lowly  that  night,  but  we  felt 
that  victory  was  certain  to  be  ours.  It  was  at  Court- 
ville  itself,  with  its  alien  railroad  voters,  that  the  foe 
was  most  .eared  ;  but  they  had  been  checked  by  the 
Boomtown  challengers.  Everyone  was  gleeful,  and 
Bob  was  cheered  as  he  delivered  an  address  from  the 
front  of  his  office  on  a  farmer's  wagon.  Bonfires  were 
lighted  in  the^streets,  and  it  was  altogether  a  night  of 
rejoicing,  as  the  result  had  been  received  from  every 
precinct  except  the  Waney  district  in  the  extreme 
north  part  of  the  county,  which  was,  of  course,  sup- 
posed to  have  given  an  almost  solid  vote  for  Boom- 
town. 

In  the  midst  of  the  rejoicing  a  courier  arrived  from 
the  Waney  district. 

'One  hundred  and  four  against  us — sold  by  the 
sneaks  !  ' 

This,  if  true,  turned  the  scale.  The  news  soon 
flashed  over  the  village.  The  alien  railroad  voters  had 
been  quietly  sent  armed  in  squads  to  that  precinct —  a 
flank  movement — and  the  Boomtown  challengers  had 
been  bribed. 

'  Contest  it ! '  '  Hang  the  traitors  !  '  were  the  cries 
on  the  street. 

Well,  it  was  contested.  Injunctions  and  manda- 
mus were  issued.  There  was  talk  of  armed  resistance 
with  guns  against  removal,  but  it  ended  in  Courtville 
securing  the  county  seat  ;  and  the  handsome  seventeen- 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  93 

thousand  dollar  court-house  remains  to-day  a  rendez- 
vous for  Boomtown  bats  and  swallows.  The  town  is 
now  almost  deserted,  with  its  handsome  brick  build- 
ings and  large  hotel,  a  fit  theme  for  a  new  Goldsmith's 
'Deserted  Village.' 

It  was  a  paralyzing  blow  to  poor  Bob. 

'There  is  one  consolation,  Minza.' 

'  And  what's  that  dear?' 

'  I  sent  your  father  the  one  thousand  dollars  first. 
He's  out  of  debt.' 

'O  Bob!  dear  fellow,  you've  ruined  yourself  for 
them  ! ' 

'  No,  no,  a  young  man  is  never  ruined  by  reverses 
while  he  has  health,' 

He  allowed  the  dear  old  office  that  I  had  grown  to 
love  to  go  to  sale  under  the  hammer  on  a  foreclosed 
mortgage,  and  we  sought  new  fields  to  conquer. 

The  wind  howled  dismally  the  night  we  left.  It 
was  in  December,  and  our  friends  at  Boomtown — for 
misfortune  reveals  your  true  friends — bid  us  God- 
speed. We  started  for  a  new  '  city  '  on  Lake  Superior 
that  was  booming. 

Now  Bob  found  in  me  a  helpmate — if  ever  there 
was  one  ;  but  where  husband  and  wife  mingle  in  the 
same  business  or  trade  there  is  bound  to  be  a  clash  at 
times.  I  must  confess  it,  I  promised  to  'obey'  him  ; 
but  there  were  times  when  I  thought  he  could  obey 
me  with  better  grace.  After  a  little  quiet  cry  the 
domestic  sky  would  clear. 

'It's  just  such  snivelling  as  this  that  drives  men  to 
the  bad  and  makes  them  seek  other  companionship, 
and  drink,'  said  Bob. 


94  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

This  was  his  standard  argument. 

After  all,  I  look  back  on  my  first  year  of  married 
life  in  Dakota  as  happy,  although  it  was  fraught  with. 
rugged  experience. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

As  we  link  together  the  memories  of  our  life,  the  im- 
pressive events  seem  to  fit  into  connected  grooves. 
Incident  follows  incident,  without  reference  to  the 
lapse  of  time. 

It  was  with  some  misgiving  that  Robert  and  I  took 
up  our  abode  at  another  '  growing  town.'  The  'boom 
era '  in  America  is  .spasmodic,  and  travels  in  waves. 
It  is  a  result  of  the  speculative  fever  that  has  always 
been  characteristic  of  American  business  methods. 
The  evolution  of  a  Western  American  town  is  an  inter- 
esting study.  First,  the  town  plot  and  the  corner  lot 
speculation,  before  the  least  indication  of  a  building 
is  visible ;  then  some  great  factory,  railroad  shops,  or 
industrial  interests  centre  there,  about  which  a  large 
city  is  to  'grow.'  The  building  operations  start  on  a 
given  day,  rough  board  shanties  springing  up  like 
magic  over-night.  Th^n  comes  the  struggle  to  deter- 
mine the  'business  portion  '  of  the  new  town.  Rival 
districts  put  up  large  buildings  to  '  draw  it. '  Next 
follow  the  churches,  and  even  these  sacred  structures 
are  placed  with  an  idea  of  '  selling  lots , '  by  the  real- 
estate  dealer.  Municipal  organization,  streets,  side- 
walks, sewers,  water  supply,  and  paving  are  the  suc- 
ceeding problems  in  the  evolution.  Later,  the  wooden 

(95) 


96  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

shanties  give  way  to  brick    '  blocks, '    and  a  spirit  of 
'  bigger  and  bigger '    rivalry   begins,    until   the  town 
becomes  a    '  city, '  and  boasts   of  parks   and  a  '  fine 
opera-house,'  palatial  school-houses  and  court-houses, 
a  Board  of  Trade,  and  a  'boodle'  alderman. 

Town  politics  naturally  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
rougher  element,  who,  through  '  public  contracts '  and 
winked-at  privileges,  strengthen  themselves  into  a 
favored  circle,  and  a  Tammany  Hall  is  originated  in 
every  growing  American  town,  which  holds  the  bal- 
ance of  power  between  the  principal  political  parties. 

This  I  observed  as  an  editor's  wife. 

At  Dunbar,  our  new  home,  Bob  secured  a  situation 
as  city  editor  on  a  daily  newspaper.  In  a  sharp  and 
bitter  local  political  struggle  politicians  belonging  to 
the  same  party  fell  out,  and  one  faction  desired  to 
start  a  newspaper  as  their  'organ,'  with  Bob  as 
editor.  They  made  up  a  liberal  subscription  as  a 
bonus,  and  in  a  short  time  the  new  paper  was  launched. 

'Well,  Minza,  I  have  a  daily  newspaper  now,'  said 
Bob  one  day. 

This  was  the  first  intimation  I  had  received  of 
BoVs  ambitions  in  that  direction. 

'  Aren't  you  afraid  it  won't  pay,  Bob  ?' 

'Pay!  I  have  everything  to  gain,  and  can't  lose 
much,'  he  replied. 

I  assisted  every  day  at  the  office,  Bob  filling  the 
position  of  editor,  business  manager,  compositor,  fore- 
man, reporter,  and  proof  reader  on  the  struggling  new 
paper.  It  was  a  tremendous  strain  on  him  ;  he  was 
hardly  civil  to  me,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  his  business. 
I  became  more  an  employee  than  a  wife.  The  change 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  97 

in  him  had  come  on  gradually  since  our  reverses  in 
Dakota. 

Dunbar,  besides  being  a  growing  and  prosperous 
manufacturing  center,  was  also  a  famous  resort  for 
tourists.  The  trout  fishing  and  hunting  in  'forests 
primeval '  were  great  attractions.  Among  the  tourists 
who  visited  the  large  hotel,  '  Minnehaha,'  every  sum- 
mer was  a  Henry  Orglive,  a  prominent  theatrical  man- 
ager. Bob  had  received  a  large  order  from  him  for 
printing,  and  had  urged  him  to  visit  our  home. 

1  Minza,  do  be  more  sociable  to  my  friends.  It's 
business,  you  know.  Brush  up  your  music  and  sing 
him  a  song.' 

Mr.  Orglive  took  tea  with  us  the  following  week. 
He  was  a  tall  handsome  man  with  a  heavy  moustache. 
After  tea  I  played  and  sang.  He  accompanied  me  in 
my  violin  selections,  and  we  were  naturally  drawn 
together  by  the  affinity  expressed  in  music.  I  was 
hungry  for  companionship  in  the  art  in  which  I  had 
been  nursed  from  earliest  childhood. 

Bob  sat  in  a  corner  and  slept,  because  his  musical 
taste  had  not  improved  since  our  marriage,  although  I 
had  done  my  best  to  educate  him. 

We  continued  to  play  until  late,  and  in  parting  Mr. 
Orglive  gave  me  a  look  that  every  woman  understands, 
and  a  smile  that  expressed  more. 

'  I  have  enjoyed  the  evening  very  much,  Mr.  Bur- 
nette,  and  shall  want  to  come  again.  Mrs.  Burnette 
is  a  charming  musician,'  said  Mr.  Orglive  to  Bob  as 
he  was  leaving. 

'  Glad  to  hear  it — glad  to  hear  it, '  said  Bob  rather 
sleepily,  as  he  showed  him  to  the  door. 


98  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

When  Bob  returned  to  the  room  he  glowered  upon 
me  with  the  ferocity  of  a  wild  beast. 

'  You  thought  I  was  asleep,  but  I  wasn't.' 

'What  is  it,  Robert  ?  '  I  asked  innocently. 

'Oh,  you  know;  you  needn't  look  so  simple,'  he 
retorted. 

This  roused  my  temper.  I  slammed  the  piano  cover 
down  with  a  bang  and  turned  out  the  gas. 

That  made  him  worse  ;  and  here  was 

1  The  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all.' 

The  incidents  of  this  night  and  Bob's  anger  created 
in  me  an  admiration  for  Mr.  Orglive  which  otherwise 
might  never  have  existed. 

But  Bob  would  not  permit  him  to  come  to  our  house 
again,  and  guarded  me  like  a  keeper. 

A  new  resort  hotel  was  opened  a  fortnight  later 
with  a  grand  ball,  and  Bob  coolly  ordered  me  to  go. 

'It's  a  matter  of  business,  so  be  careful  how  you 
act.' 

Poor  fellow,  I  thought  his  mind  must  be  giving  way 
under  the  strain  of  business  anxieties.  I  had  a  good 
cry  while  dressing. 

'  That's  right !  snivel  away  ! '  he  taunted. 

My  silence  irritated  him.  We  drove  to  the  ball, 
and  as  I  came  out  ot  the  dressing-room  I  met  Mr. 
Orglive. 

'  So  charmed  to  see  you  Mrs.  Burnette.  I've  rather 
taken  charge  of  affairs  to-night,  seeing  that  I  am  a 
stockholder  in  this  new  hotel,  and  you're  to  sing  for 
us.' 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  99 

'  But  I've  no  music,'  I  replied. 

' I  have,'  he  said  quickly.  'I  bought  those  pieces 
you  sang  for  me  the  other  evening.  I  never  can  for- 
get  ' 

Just  then  Bob  came  up,  and  his  face  was  fairly 
livid. 

I  tried  to  excuse  myself. 

'  Don't  you  sing  to-night,  or  you  will  regret  it,' 
whispered  Bob  hoarsely. 

This  aroused  all  the  tiger  in  me. 

'  I  will, '  I  replied  defiantly. 

I  was  afraid  our  actions  had  been  observed  and 
would  make  a  scene,  so  I  hurried  away  from  him. 

My  songs  were  announced  after  the  first  lancers, 
and  I  did  not  dance,  so  as  to  save  my  breath.  Mr. 
Orglive  presided  at  the  piano,  and  his  introductory 
chords  indicated  a  masterly  player.  The  whole  past 
seemed  to  come  back,  and  passionately  and  defiantly  I 
sang  the  songs  he  handed  me.  I  had  not  sung  before 
a  Dunbar  audience  previously  to  this,  and  it  created 
something  of  a  sensation. 

'  Is  that  Mrs.  Burnette  ?  '  '  Really  now,  what  a 
beautiful  singer ! '  were  the  whispered  remarks  I  over- 
heard as  I  took  my  seat. 

Congratulations  were  pouring  in  when  Mr.  Orglive 
gave  me  his  arm,  and  escorted  me  from  the  Concert 
Hall. 

In  the  corner  of  the  cloak  room  I  saw  Bob,  crouch- 
ing like  a  tiger,  with  his  face  telling  the  horrid  story 
of  jealousy.  Of  course  everyone  must  have  noticed 
him,  and  I  felt  quite  disgraced. 

'Will  you  take  me  home?'  I  whispered. 


100  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'No,'  he  hissed  back. 

Mr.  Orglive  at  the  door  must  have  overheard  us. 

'  May  I  have  this  waltz  ?  '  said  Mr.  Orglive,  advanc- 
ing as  the  music  was  resumed. 

I  hesitated.  I  had  not  danced  since  our  marriage, 
and  with  a  desperate  shrug  I  answered  '  Yes. ' 

That  waltz  I  never  can  forget.  How  kind — how 
gentle  he  was  to  me  !  How  it  contrasted  with  the 
boorishness  of  Bob  !  His  arm  about  me  assumed  a 
protection  as  we  glided  in  the  fascination  of  a  dream. 
I  went  back  to  Bob,  who  still  clung  to  the  corner. 

'  Take  me  home,  Robert,'  I  said. 

He  got  up  lazily,  as  if  bored,  and  went  to  the  cloak- 
room, and  as  I  was  in  the  corridor  waiting  for  him, 
Mr.  Orglive  came  out  of  the  dancing-room,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow,  after  a  vigorous  polka  with 
Mrs.  Goundy,  who  was  very  stout. 

'I  must  see  you  again,'  he  said  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice. 

Bob  heard  it  as  he  came  out  of  the  cloak-room,  and 
the  two  men  glared  at  each  other  a  minute,  and  parted 
stiffly. 

How  miserable  I  was  after  the  ball !  Scarcely  a 
word  was  spoken  between  us.  I  took  off  my  ball  dress 
and  sat  by  the  open  grate  praying — praying  to  God. 
A  miserable,  unhappy  girl-wife  ! 

Matters  did  not  mend,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  rift 
was  widening,  and  we  were  drifting  farther  and  farther 
apart.  Bob  would  stay  out  late  at  night,  and  I  feared 
further  trouble ;  he  was  so  completely  unlike  his  old 
self. 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  IOI 

One  evening  he  came  home  to  dinner  in  a  rather 
more  cheerful  frame  of  mind  than  usual.  I  was  sur- 
prised. But  it  was  a  leering,  sarcastic  laugh  he  gave 
as  he  said : 

'  Now  you'll  love  me  again  as  a  wife  should; '  and 
he  threw  down  a  large  yellow  envelope.  'Read it,'  he 
continued. 

I  did  so  mechanically.  It  was  a  letter  from  a  New 
York  firm  of  lawyers.  One  sentence  was  enough. 

'  Your  claim  to  the  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
from  the  Ferguson  estate  in  Scotland  is  established.' 

I  read  no  more. 

'You're  to  be  congratulated,'  I  said  rather  lan- 
guidly. 

'  So  that's  the  way  my  years  of  trouble  and  work 
are  received  ?  Damn  a  woman,  anyhow  !  I'll  go  back 
to  balloons.' 

This  was  a  straw  that  broke  my  temper  again. 

'  Keep  your  money  ! — I  don't  want  it;  I'm  going 
home.' 

This  seemed  to  sober  him. 

'  Minza,  don't  go  mad,'  he  cried,  coaxingly,  coming 
towards  me. 

'  I  have  decided, '  I  said  firmly. 

'  But  think  of  the  scandal  ! '  he  implored. 

'  Better  that  than  live  in  torture. ' 

It  looked  for  a  time  as  if  there  might  be  a  recon- 
ciliation, but  the  flood-tide  was  past. 

'  Well,  Minza,  I  am  an  aeronaut,  and  I'll  soar — soar 
— then  you'll  want  to  see  me'  he  growled  as  he  left  the 
room. 

This  last  remark  flashed  the  truth  on  me.     Had 


IO2  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

Bob  gone  mad?  It  was  a  terrible  thought,  and  I  did 
not  dare  to  breathe  a  word  of  my  suspicions,  as  the 
gossips  would  say  I  wanted  to  deprive  him  of  his 
fortune,  and  ordinarily  he  seemed  rational  enough ; 
but  now  all  this  talk  of  balloons  had  its  significance. 

It  was  announced  in  the  paper  the  next  day  that  I 
was  to  visit  my  home  in  Iowa.  Bob  sold  the  newspaper 
soon  after,  and  was  pressed  on  all  sides  with  advice  as 
to  how  to  invest  his  money.  How  many  moth-like 
friends  the  glare  of  wealth  will  bring !  They  found 
his  weakness — balloons  ! 

He  did  not  seem  to  realize  my  determination  that 
it  should  be  a  final  separation.  I  had  no  power  or 
influence  with  him.  He  sent  money  to  the  Smithville 
Bank  to  my  credit,  and  gave  me  a  purse  when  we 
parted.  It  was  like  kissing  a  dead  person  when  I  bid 
him  '  Good-bye. '  I  tried  to  confide  my  fears  as  to 
Bob's  mind  to  friends  ;  but  they  were  all  suspicious, 
and  thought  I  wanted  Bob's  money. 

I  felt  little  regret  at  leaving  Dunbar.  The  beauti- 
ful bay,  which  was  an  arm  of  I^ake  Superior,  was 
placid  and  serene,  the  large  pine,  spruce,  and  hemlock 
trees  making  a  rich  purple  horizon  fringe  on  the 
opposite  shore.  The  little  group  of  islands  glistened 
like  emeralds  from  the  cliff  as  the  city  faded  from 
view.  Even  the  scattered  stumps  and  red  mucky 
clay  seemed  to  add  artistic  beauty  to  the  scene.  The 
dismal  landscape  of  burnt  pine-stumps  and  log  clear- 
ings indicated  the  fury  of  forest  fires  where  many  a 
poor  settler  had  lost  his  life. 

Again  the  same  old  evil  star  followed   me.     The 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA  DONNA.        103 

factory  whistles  just  then  sounded  in  a  chorus  that 
echoed  among  the  hills. 

It  was  a  Minor  Chord. 

Of  course  people  would  talk,  but  let  them  talk! 
My  whole  life  had  been  public  talk.  One  restless 
night  on  the  Pullman  sleeping-car,  I  dreamed  of  Bob 
and  his  balloons,  and  when  I  awoke  I  was  at  Smith- 
ville. 

Dear  old  home !  Every  time  I  returned,  it  awakened- 
new  sensations. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

WHILE  I  did  not  feel  that  our  separation  was  per- 
manent, I  knew  that  all  our  happiness  as  man  and 
wife  was  at  an  end.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  cling  to  him, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  cursed  fortune  it  would 
have  been  easier. 

What  a  home  getting  it  was  1  I  felt  something  of 
a  prodigal.  The  letters  from  home  had  been  rather 
irregular  and  had  been  growing  more  formal ;  but 
when  I  saw  the  dear  old  house  with  green  blinds 
nestling  in  the  middle  of  the  road  I  felt  that  one  thing 
had  been  accomplished — we  were  not  one  thousand 
dollars  in  debt — and  this  brought  back  a  tender  mem- 
ory of  Bob's  generosity.  Was  I  really  an  ungrateful 
creature  ? 

I  expected  to  find  poverty  and  sadness  in  the  old 
home,  but  there  was  peace,  plenty^,  and  happiness.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  was  quite  unnecessary. 

'Minza,  Minza,  my  child!'  cried  mother  as  she 
rushed  out. 

Father  came  in  from  the  garden.  Jimmy  gave  me 
a  real  young  brother's  hug,  and  Tod  waved  his  Fourth 
of  July  flag  in  exultation. 

Yes,  they  were  glad  to  see  me,  and  how  my  hungry', 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIMA    DONNA.  105 

love-famished  heart  leaped  for  joy  !  There  is  always  a 
feeling  of  refuge  in  home — where  enemies  and  jealous- 
ies of  life  cannot  intrude. 

At  mother's  knee  I  sat  as  I  did  when  a  child  and 
told  her  all  between  my  sobs. 

'My  dear,  dear  Minza!  why  didn't  you  write  to 
me?' 

'I  couldn't,  mother  ;  my  secret  sorrows  seemed  as 
sacred  to  me  as  my  prayers. ' 

'Well,  dear,  you  are  home  now;  let's  forget  it. 
You  know  I  trembled  for  my  daughter  even  when  we 
heard  of  your  prosperity.  You  decided  too  hastily, 
and  I  always  thought  if  we  had  not  gone  to  Europe  I 
should  have  saved  you  the  hasty  and  fatal  step. ' 

'But,  mother,  Bob  was  good  as  long  as '  I 

broke  down  again. 

'  Yes,  perhaps  the  poor  fellow  overtaxed  his  brain, 
and  it  may  come  out  all  right  yet.  I,et  us  have  some 
tea  and  music.' 

Her  cheerfulness  was  infectious,  and  we  were  soon 
singing  the  old  duets. 

As  I  received  letters  regularly  with  money  from 
Bob,  there  was  little  talk  in  the  village  ;  but  when  my 
stay  lengthened  out  into  months  and  months,  and  he 
never  came  to  visit  me,  there  was  a  ripple  of  curiosity 
over  the  neighborhood. 

In  the  autumn  I  received  the  following  note  from 
Bob,  dated  at  Shelby  ville:  — 

'  Dear  Minza: — Mother  died  Friday,  and  was  buried 
this  morning;  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  live  for  now. 
I  am  going  to  Europe  next  week  to  climb  the  Alps  in 


106  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

my  new  balloon,  which  I  have  named  after  you.  We 
have  organized  a  scientific  expedition.  I  may  meet 
you  in  heaven.  Good-bye. 

'BOB.' 

Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it  now.  He  was  crazy. 
I  decided  to  go  to  Shelbyville  that  night.  I  thought 
my  duty  as  a  wife  demanded  it,  and  determined  to  go 
with  him. 

As  I  was  about  to  step  on  to  the  train  a  telegram 
was  handed  me  from  New  York: — 

'  I  sail  to-morrow;  you  cannot  go.  Your  heart  is 
too  heavy  for  the  balloon. 

'Bos.' 

With  all  the  cunning  of  a  madman  he  seemed  to 
have  divined  my  purpose.  I  tried  to  stop  him  with  a 
telegram  to  the  authorities  in  New  York ;  but  even 
they,  after  an  examination,  permitted  him  to  sail,  and 
evidently  thought  me  a  scheming  wife,  anxious  only 
for  his  money.  The  letter  I  received  later  stated: — 

'Dear  Madam: — I  take  pleasure  in  stating  that 
Robert  Burnette  is  of  sound  mind,  and  no  more  insane 
than  any  of  our  eminent  scientists  and  investigators, 
and  that  the  trip  will  not  only  add  valuable  truths  to 
scientific  lore,  but  improve  his  health  as  well. 

'J.  M.  BARTLETT,  M.  D.' 

I  watched  eagerly  for  the  safe  arrival  of  the  steamer. 
Later  I  received  long,  interesting,  and  endearing 
letters  from  Bob  ;  but  the  balloon  always  came  first, 
and  he  was  generous  in  his  allowance  of  money. 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  IO7 

'  But,  I  shall  not  send  you  too  much  money  at  one 
time,  as  you  might  run  away  in  another  man's 
balloon.' 

This  was  an  excerpt  from  one  of  his  letters. 

Some  months  had  elapsed  when  I  received  a  letter 
from  him  announcing  the  great  aerial  voyage  he  was 
to  undertake  that  day  in  his  new  air-ship.  His  fortune 
must  have  dwindled  under  the  enormous  expense  of 
his  aerial  expeditions,  but  he  was  always  hopeful. 

'When  I  visit  Mars  and  return,  we'll  go  there  to 
live,  Minza.' 

'  The  new  ship  is  a  beauty.' 

So  cunningly  were  these  passages  interwoven  in 
the  correspondence  that  the  authorities  deemed  the 
irrational  portions  simply  'jokes '  when  I  made  a  legal 
effort  to  restrain  him  in  his  wild  purposes. 

He  was  to  make  his  great  ascent  on  my  birthday. 
How  eagerly  I  watched  the  cablegrams  in  the  papers ! 
The  event  attracted  world-wide  attention  as  a  noble 
self-sacrifice  for  science.  The  balloon  ascended  with 
my  husband. 

'  The  great  air-ship  '  'Minza' '  faded  away  into  the 
merest  speck,  and  seemed  to  sink  into  the  blue  sea  of 
the  skies,'  read  the  graphic  account.  This  was  the 
last  I  heard  of  poor  Bob.  Whether  I  was  now  a  widow 
or  a  wife,  I  knew  not. 

Of  course,  I  naturally  supposed  that  his  will  was 
made,  and  that  there  would  be  no  trouble  about  the 
property  if  there  was  any  left;  but  I  was  mistaken. 
Bob  had  disappeared  in  a  foreign  country,  and,  as  the 
authorities  had  no  positive  evidence  of  his  death,  they 


108  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

refused  to  probate  a  wife's  claim  to  his  money.  Even 
the  life  insurance  companies  refused  to  pay  the 
indemnity. 

A  husband  in  the  air! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ONCE  again  the  problem  of  earning  a  living  confronted 
me.  I  could  not  allow  mother  or  father  to  support 
me.  Mother  fired  me  with  ambition. 

'Take  what  you  have,  and  study  for  the  stage, 
Minza.  You  are  growing  beautiful,  my  dear,  and 
your  early  training  will  not  come  amiss,'  said  mother. 

Another  of  those  old-time  family  consultations,  and 
as  usual,  mother's  advice  prevailed. 

In  another  week  I  was  to  leave  for  Boston  and 
resume  my  musical  studies.  My  life's  mission  then 
began  in  earnest,  although  every  day  I  expected  some 
tidings  from  Bob. 

The  day  before  I  was  to  start  I  felt  dizzy  and  my 
system  gave  way.  Dr.  Waddington  was  called. 
Mother  soon  had  me  in  bed.  The  old  doctor  felt  my 
cheek,  took  my  temperature  and  counted  my  pulse. 

'Hum,  hum — typhoid  fever,'  he  said,  in  as  matter- 
of-fact  a  way  as  if  it  had  been  the  mumps. 

That  night  I  was  raving  and  delirious.  Mother 
told  me  it  was  all  about  Bob  and  the  balloons. 

'  Poor  little  Minza — a  wife  or  widow?  '  was  the  last 
thing  I  remember  mother  saying.  They  thought  I 
was  going  to  die,  but  I  didn't. 

Naturallly  my  illness  interfered  with  all  plans  for 
(109) 


110  THE   MINOR    CHORD. 

the  future,  but  as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  sit  up  I  began 
to  map  out  my  campaign.  Getting  well  was  a  tedious 
business,  but  somehow  time  wheels  around  the  days 
and  months  just  as  regularly  one  season  as  another. 
The  fear  of  losing  my  voice  proved  groundless — in  fact, 
is  seemed  to  strengthen  and  improve ;  but  my  red  hair 
all  came  out,  and  left  me  quite  bald. 

Horrors  !     Was  I  to  be  a  bald-headed  woman  ? 

It  began  to  grow  gently  again,  and  I  left  for  Boston 
with  a  soft  amber  down  covering  my  head,  over  which 
I  wore  a  generous  and  flowing  blonde  wig. 

As  I  was  entering  the  train  I  saw  a  familiar  form 
stooping  under  the  weight  of  heavy  valises.  It  was 
Fred  Burroughes.  He  did  not  recognize  me,  and  I 
spoke  to  him  and  he  looked  up  in  surprise. 

'  What,  Minza ! — and  where  are  you  going  ? ' 

We  got  on  to  the  train  together,  and  I  told  him  my 
story. 

Of  course  this  incident  gave  Smithville  gossips 
something  more  to  talk  about,  and  mother  was 
enlightened  with  the  information  that  I  had  eloped 
with  Fred  Burroughes. 

Poor  fellow  !     He  was  my  first  benefactor. 

His  mother  had  died  recently,  and  he,  too,  had 
been  ill  for  nearly  a  year  past,  as  his  pale  face  indi- 
cated. 

We  were  in  the  middle  of  an  interesting  conversa- 
tion when  he  arose  abruptly. 

'I  must  get  off  here,  Minza,'  he  said  with  a  sad 
look  in  his  eyes.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  help  you ' 

'  Hush  !  Fred  Burroughes,  it  is  I  who  should  help 
you  now.  Write  to  me,  will  you  ?  '  I  said  cheerily. 


A  STORY   OF   A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  Ill 

'  Minza,  I'm  married.     This  is  my  home,  and — ' 

'  All  aboard  !  '  shouted  the  burly  conductor,  and  the 
rest  of  Fred's  words  were  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  train. 

It  seems  as  if  old  friends  drift  apart  when  absent 
from  each  other.  New  associations  uproot  old  acquaint- 
ance. Poor  Fred !  was  his  married  life  as  unhappy  as 
mine  had  been  ? 

In  Boston  again  !  It  all  seemed  familiar  to  me  now. 
With  my  old  teacher,  Professor  Windermere,  I  plunged 
into  my  musical  studies.  He  remembered  every  weak- 
ness and  peculiarity  of  my  early  singing  and  gave 
them  special  attention.  When  I  announced  my  deter- 
mination to  study  opera,  he  shook  his  head  dolefully. 

'  Your  voice  is  too  weak — not  full  enough  for  these 
great  opera  houses;  and  then  you'll  have  to  learn  to 
act.  No,  Minza,  I  don't  want  you  to  chase  a  false 
hope.  Study  to  be  a  teacher,  and  rest  content.' 

'  My  mother  said  I  was  to  be  an  opera  prima  donna, 
and  I  ara  going  to  aim  for  that,'  I  replied  decidedly. 

'  All  right,  my  dear  ;  but  remember  the  warning  I 
gave  you.' 

My  means  were  limited,  and  to  secure  additional 
instruction  in  stage  work  I  accepted  a  position  in  the 
mantle  department  of  a  large  draper's,  serving  as  a 
model  to  try  on  the  garments  for  lady  customers.  It 
brought  me  a  steady  income,  and  I  continued  there  for 
some  time  ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  year  I  found  my 
funds  almost  entirely  exhausted,  except  for  the  little 
savings  sent  me  by  mother  and  the  small  salary  from 
the  shop. 

I  made  application  to  sing  the  solo  parts  in  'The 
Creation  '  at  the  coming  May  Festival.  It  was  auda- 


112  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

cious  in  me,  but  ttte  conductor,  having  had  the  usual 
row  with  prima  donnas,  accepted  me  as  a  revenge  on 
the  unconquerable  primas. 

The  unknown  soloist !  The  public  were  on  the  qui 
vive.  I  rehearsed  hours  and  hours  with  the  conductor, 
and  he  finally  expressed  himself  rather  reluctantly  as 
'  pleased '  with  his  newly  discovered  soprano. 

The  day  of  the  festival  arrived.  The  choruses  of 
Haydn  never  seemed  so  heaven-inspired  before.  My 
voice  acted  rather  poorly  at  first,  but  when  I  came  to 
the  cooing-dove  passage  I  tried  to  '  coo, '  and  throw 
my  soul  into  that  dove,  which  I  could  almost  feel 
hovering  near  me. 

The  effect  was  electrical.  The  people  broke  out  in 
one  solid  cheer.  The  simple  and  truthful  shading  of 
the  passage  had  touched  the  responsive  chord  in  that 
great  audience. 

The  entire  oratorio  was  given  with  splendid 
expression,  and  the  conductor  was  showered  with  con- 
gratulations. He  pushed  his  way  through  the  sing- 
ers to  where  I  was  surrounded  by  admiring  acquaint- 
ances. His  shining  bald  head  seemed  to  reflect  the 
beaming  smile  on  his  face. 

'Your  fame  is  made,  madame.  Don't  hesitate  to 
begin  on  your  repertoire  at  once.  You  have  my  ever- 
lasting gratitude  :  you  have  saved  me  a  humiliation.' 

The  newspapers  were  very  elaborate  in  their  praise. 
The  reporters  called  on  me  iti  profusion,  and  were 
quite  surprised  to  realize  that  I  thoroughly  understood 
the  workings  of  the  editorial  machines  in  grinding  out 
'matter.'  They  were  my  best  friends,  and  I  took 
pains  to  help  them  to  'good  stories.'  The  old  news- 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIM  A    DONNA. 

paper  experience  came  back  to  me,  and  the  pleasant 
hours  I  spent  in  receiving  those  handsome,  keen, 
bright-eyed  reporters  I  shall  never  forget. 

Those  who  succeed  in  a  public  career  seldom  real- 
ize how  much  they  owe  to  these  irrepressible  news- 
paper men. 

In  a  few  weeks  I  was  known  far  and  wide  through- 
out America  and  properly  christened  with  a  stage 
name.  Even  the  querulous  criticism  of  the  older  critics, 
who  never  liked  to  agree  with  the  younger  ones,  had 
its  beneficial  effect  in  making  '  Madame  Helvina ' 
known  to  the  musical  world. 

After  this  I  began  to  develop  a  capacity  for  busi- 
ness. The  oratorio  engagement  brought  me  numerous 
offers  for  concerts,  although  the  income  did  not 
amount  to  much. 

It  was  a  newspaper  man  who  solved  the  question 
of  my  future  career — Mr.  Howard  Wittaker. 

'You  ought  to  go  abroad  at  once,  Madame 
Helvina.' 

'  Yes  ?  '  I  replied  questioningly. 

'  Well,  I've  an  idea.  Old  James  Bluffingame  was 
captivated  by  your  singing.  I  will  negotiate  a  loan.' 

'  You're  very  kind,  but  be  very  careful ' 

'  But  will  you  tell  me  the  real  story  of  your  life  ? ' 
he  entreated. 

'  No,  that's  a  secret  ;  the  past  is  dead  to  me. 
Please  don't  ask  me.' 

'  Anything  that  you  desire,  madame — I  am  at  your 
service,'  he  said,  as  he  gallantly  bowed  himself  out  at 
the  door. 

An  "American   newspaper  man   has  a  faculty   of 


114  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

accomplishing  results.     I  received  a  note  a  few  days 

later : — 

i 
'  Enclosed  find  cheque,  two  thousand  dollars,  sent 

by  order  Mr.  James  Bluffingame,  who  desires  in  return 
your  personal  note  and  photograph.  Make  the  note 
due  at  the  time  most  convenient  to  yourself. 

'J.  SMITH  &  SONS,  Bankers.' 

This  was  Howard's  work. 

I  was  unable  to  spare  the  money  to  visit  my 
mother  and  the  little  Iowa  home  before  I  went  abroad ; 
and  besides,  mother  wrote  insisting :  '  Start  at  once. 
You  are  growing  old.'  What!  I  growing  old  and 
only  twenty '  Yes,  there  were  a  few  gray  hairs. 
Anything  but  red  hair !  thought  I. 

The  day  of  sailing  soon  arrived.  The  pier  was 
crowded  with  people  to  see  off  friends  and  relatives. 
Flowers  and  bouquets  were  showered  upon  the  parting 
passengers  in  profusion.  The  first  bell  sounded,  and 
the  'Good-byes'  began  to  flow  with  the  tears. 
Mothers  parting  from  sons,  sweethearts  from  lovers, 
brothers  from  sisters,  husbands  from  wives !  Ah,  how 
these  partings  made  me  shudder !  There  were  none 
thereto  bid  me  'Good-bye.'  I  stood  alone  looking 
over  the  rail  as  the  cheers  began  and  the  hats  and 
handkerchiefs  waved  from  the  pier.  There  were  many 
red  eyes  among  the  passengers.  The  sobbing  began 
with  a  crescendo  and  concluded  with  a  staccato.  The 
brass  band  struck  up  a  lively  air,  as  if  to  drown  the 
grief,  as  the  great  boat  backed  out  from  the  pier  and 
steamed  majestically  through  the  forest  of  masts  down 
New  York  Harbor. 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  1 15 

The  last  sound  I  heard  from  my  native  shore  was 
the  dismal  echo  of  the  bell-buoy  as  it  swayed  to  and 
fro  on  the  billows  of  the  deep. 

It  struck  a  Minor  Chord. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SINCE  the  earliest  Scriptural  times,  and  the  days  of 
Jonah,  various  attempts  have  been  made  to  describe  a 
sea  voyage.  It  is  something  that  is  so  thoroughly  felt 
that  mere  word-painting  seems  inadequate. 

The  genial  old  pilot — an  ideal  sea-dog — was 
lowered  when  we  left  Sandy  Hook ;  he  was  laden  with 
last  messages  to  friends  behind.  When  I  handed  him 
a  letter  for  mother,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  bound  for 
Eternity.  Once  out  of  sight  of  land,  the  ocean 
appeared  very  calm,  but  the  big  steamer  began  rocking 
like  a  cradle.  The  'feeling'  came  on  insidiously,  and 
I  soon  retired  below,  trying  to  smile  as  I  left  the 
friends  on  deck. 

I  had  often  sung  about  the  deep  blue  sea,  but  had 
never  realized  what  it  was  before.  The  blue  is  almost 
an  indigo,  and  seems  to  color  the  white-crested  foam 
in  the  vessel's  wake  like  the  blueing  in  mother's 
wash-tub. 

The  first  day  at  sea  is  not  always  the  most  sociable 
of  the  voyage.  There  is  a  land  reserve  that  needs  to 
be  driven  away  by  the  sea  air.  The  bugle  trumpet- 
call  for  meals  is  heard  often — but  at  first  few  respond. 
In  a  few  days  the  motion  of  the  steamer  begins  to  feel 

(116) 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIM  A    DONNA.  117 

like  the  old  swing  at  home,  and  you  quite  enjoy  it. 
Concerts  are  given  in  the  saloon  as  the  patients  are 
relieved  from  the  hospital  below.  We  learn  in  these 
few  idle  days  in  crossing  the  Atlantic  more  personal 
and  biographical,  information  from  a  fellow-passenger 
than  he  would  be  likely  to  relate  otherwise  in  a  life- 
time. The  company  on  board  were  very  agreeable, 
and  we  began  to  feel  like  one  large  family,  and  con- 
versed pleasantly  on  musical  and  literary  matters.  It 
was  altogether  very  entertaining ;  but  there  is  always 
someone  whom  you  find  most  congenial.  While  there 
were  many  attractive  and  pleasant  gentlemen  on  board, 
my  fancy  was  quite  taken  with  a  lonesome,  shy,  fair- 
haired  young  man  of  twenty.  No  one  seemed  to  take 
much  notice  of  him,  and  his  loneliness  created  a  bond 
of  sympathy  between  us,  so  that  we  were  soon  good 
friends. 

'Aren't  you  a  singer?'  he  asked,  looking  at  me 
earnestly. 

'  I  hope  to  be  some  day,'  I  replied. 

'  Yes,  and  I  think  you  must  be  Madame  Helvina. 
My  mother  heard  you  in  "  The  Creation  "  in  Boston, 
and  she  says  you  are  going  to  be  a  great  singer — and 
my  mother  is  a  musician.' 

Bless  his  heart !  He  struck  my  weak  point — 
mother-love — and  I  could  have  hugged  him  for  those 
words. 

'Who  is  your  mother?'  I  asked,  growing  interested. 

'A  Polish  woman.  I  am  American  born,  and  am 
going  back  to  join  my  parents,  who  have  returned  to 
Poland.  It's  a  poor  place  for  musicians;  but  mother 


Il8  THE   MINOR  CHORD. 

had  the  old  home  left  her  recently,  and  they  have 
decided  to  go  there  to  live.' 

'  Do  you  take  after  your  mother  and  sing  also  ? ' 

'No,  I  am  simply  a  violinist.' 

We  passed  many  happy  hours  together.  He 
played  for  my  singing,  and  also  sang  in  a  beautiful, 
rich,  robust  tenor  voice. 

'  Why  don't  you  take  up  voice  culture  ?'  I  asked, 
turning  to  him  quickly. 

'  Because  father  hates  singing.  He  was  an  operatic 
tenor  once,  and  I  suppose  there  is  good  reason  for  not 
wanting  me  to  become  a  singer,  although  I  love  to 
sing.' 

'Well,  Gene,'  said  I,  for  that  was  his  name,  '  you 
must  sing.  Study  the  great  art,  for  me  !' 

He  took  the  matter  rather  seriously,  and  gave  me 
a  reflective  look  which  indicated  an  underlying  deter- 
mination. 

The  men  in  the  smoking-room  continued  their 
games  until  late  at  night,  and  during  the  day  would 
make  a  wager  on  every  possible  incident  which  involved 
doubt — on  the  number  of  miles  the  ship  would  go,  on 
how  many  vessels  we  would  sight  during  the  day,  on 
fog  or  no  fog  ;  and  it  was  carried  to  my  ears  by  inter- 
ested parties,  that  a  wager  was  pending  between  two 
men,  one  of  whom  was  known  as  '  Fuzzy- face, '  as  to 
whether  or  not  I  would  kiss  the  fair-haired  young  man 
on  parting. 

Was  I  so  much  of  a  flirt  ?  It  provoked  me,  and  I 
determined  to  frustrate  their  wager,  so  that  neither 
side  should  win. 

What  a   thrill  passed   over   me  as  I  first  gazed  on 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIM  A   DONNA.  1 19 

England,  the  home  of  my  forefathers !  Even  the 
bleak,  bare  cliffs  of  Portland  Bill  seemed  fascinating 
as  we  sailed  up  the  Channel,  past  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
What  a  great  part  in  the  world's  history  that  little 
island  has  played  1 

At  the  landing,  after  the  blue-capped  Customs 
officer  had  finished  the  examination  of  his  portman- 
teau, Gene  Paroski  turned  about  hurriedly  to  catch  his 
train,  which  was  waiting. 

'  Madame  Helvina,  I  am  going,  and — and ' 

He  stood  bashfully,  cap  in  hand.  I  forgot  my 
determination. 

The  fuzzy-faced  passenger  caught  sight  of  us,  and 
was  unhappy.  He  had  lost  his  wager. 

'  Don't  forget  that  voice,  and  we'll  sing  together 
again  some  time,  perhaps.  Good-bye, '  I  said,  as  he 
hurried  off. 

He  waved  his  hand  to  me  and  was  gone. 

It  was  my  first  meeting  with  one  who  I  felt  would 
become  a  famous  tenor. 

Was  it  my  last  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

LONDON  !  An  American  is  at  first  disgusted,  and 
later  falls  in  love,  with  the  great  city.  There  is  only 
one  London  on  earth.  The  crush  of  vehicles,  the 
lamp-post  islands  in  the  centre  of  the  streets,  Old 
Father  Thames  with  the  tide  in  and  out,  Trafalgar 
Square,  Piccadilly  Circus — it  all  rushes  back  in  one 
gleam  of  memory.  How  I  longed  to  visit  the  sights 
of  London  !  but  work,  work,  held  me  captive. 

My  grandfather  lived  a  short  distance  from  Lon- 
don, in  one  of  the  prettiest  little  villages  in  England,  on 
the  banks  of  the  classic  Thames.  Dear  old  grandfather  1 
He  had  seen  seventy  summers,  and  he  was  a  typical 
jolly  Englishman.  His  proverbial  good-nature  and 
contented  mind  were  the  secret  of  his  long  years. 

'  Welcome,  Minza,  welcome  to  Ashley  !  How  like 
Robert  you  are  !'  he  said,  as  he  gave  me  a  searching 
look  on  arrival. 

We  had  never  met,  but  there  is  something  in  blood 
relationship  that  is  felt  at  first  greeting. 

I  am  afraid  I  was  not  so  diligent  in  my  studies  at 
first  as  I  should  have  been.  I  wandered  down  past 
the  old  bridge  where  father  and  his  brothers  had  spent 
many  happy  days  in  youth.  Lord  Tonquay's  old 

(130) 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIMA    DONNA.  121 

place,  with  its  high  wall,  Stompy  Pond,  Birwood 
Park,  the  old  inns,  all  had  their  history.  I  revelled 
in  ancestral  scenes.  The  old  churchyard,  with  moss- 
covered  gravestones  and  epitaphs,  among  which  I 
found  the  resting-place  of  my  great-great-grandmother 
—  all  this  was  entrancing  to  an  American.  The  sight 
of  my  name  in  such  a  place  thrilled  me.  I  found 
among  the  old  records  in  the  vestry,  in  faded  ink,  the 
date  of  father's  christening. 

Every  evening  grandfather  sat  in  the  ivy-covered 
porch  in  the  long  summer  twilight.  One  evening, 
when  I  had  just  finished  singing  for  him,  I  came 
out  and  kissed  that  dear  old  face. 

'Grandpa,  who  were  our  ancestors?'  I  asked, 
sitting  down  at  his  knee. 

This  question  naturally  expresses  the  curiosity  of 
all  American  girls.  Of  course,  they  do  not  care  for 
ancient  and  noble  lineage  ;  but  they  would  ' '  like  to 
know  '  j  ust  for  curiosity. 

'They  do  say,'  said  grandpa  reflectively,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  '  that  many  of  our  very  ancient 
ancestors  are  buried  in  Cornwall,  and  that  they  were 
a  branch  of  Lord  Grundy's  family.' 

'  Ah,  but  who  were  we  before  that,  as  far  back  as 
the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror  ?'  I  continued 
inquisitively. 

'  My  dear  Minza,'  said  grandfather,  as  if  beginning 
a  long  narrative,  '  my  memory  does  not  run  back 
quite  so  far  as  that.  However,  the  dove  and  the  linnet 
is  our  coat  of  arms. ' 

'But  who  were  our  ancestors ? 

'  You  inquisitive  little  minx  !     And  do  you  want  to 


122  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

know  the  real  truth  ?  As  an  American,  the  question 
of  ancestry  ought  not  to  interest  you  to  any  great 
extent. ' 

'Well,  I  should  like  to  know,  grandpa — out  of 
curiosity,  you  know.' 

'Oh,  indeed!  Well,  Minza,  the  first  Maxwell  that 
we  have  any  trace  of  in  the  genealogical  investigations 
was — a  Cornish  pirate !' 

'  A  pirate  !'  I  gasped. 

'Just  so — ha,  ha,  ha !'  and  he  laughed  heartily  at 
my  discomfiture. 

This  revelation  paralyzed  my  curiosity,  and  I  asked 
no  further  questions  and  ceased  the  pursuit  of  the 
pedigree. 

The  next  day  a  regatta  was  given  at  Ashley-on 
the-Thames.  The  morning  was  wet,  but  in  England 
everything  starts  punctually,  and  the  first  race  was 
called  at  9:30,  during  a  heavy  shower,  by  firing  a 
pistol.  It  was  a  single-scull  race.  The  contestants 
were  brawny  fellows,  and  their  bare  knees  seemed 
higher  than  their  heads  as  they  pulled  the  long  nar- 
now  scull,  almost  bounding  through  the  water.  It 
was  a  close  and  exciting  race,  and  a  shot  fired  when 
the  first  boat  crossed  the  line  announced  the  finish. 
Later  in  the  day  the  river  filled  up  with  steam  launches 
from  London  and  rowing-boats  from  neighboring 
towns.  There  were  also  many  punts,  which  resemble 
the  Venetian  gondola,  and  are  pushed  along  by  means 
of  a  long  pole.  It  was  altogether  a  gala  day,  and  the 
broad  English  spoken  almost  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
in  a  foreign  land:  I  could  scarce1  y  understand  a  word. 

When  the  race  between   t!ae   Ashley   Eights  and 


A   STORY   OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  123 

the  Rushtons  was  called,  there  was  great  excitement. 
It  was  the  event  of  the  day.  All  craned  their  necks 
to  see  the  contest  between  the  rival  towns.  The 
Ashley  crew  wore  blue  and  the  Rushtons  red.  I 
was  out  in  the  middle  of  the  river  in  a  boat,  with 
grandpa's  young  gardener  lad  to  look  after  me.  My 
fancy  chose  the  blues  as  favorite.  I  stepped  on  the 
seat  of  the  boat  to  obtain  a  better  view  of  them  as  they 
passed  by  on  their  way  to  the  starting-post.  I  turned 
too  far — a  splash — and  I  was  in  the  water. 

Oh,  the  thoughts  that  flashed  through  my  mind  in 
those  few  seconds !  The  leader  of  the  Ashley  blues 
jumped  from  his  seat,  nearly  upsetting  his  comrades 
in  the  scull,  and  soon  had  me  safely  on  shore.  How 
awkward  and  disgraced  I  felt  as  I  stood  looking  at 
him",  with  my  skirts  dripping  with  water ! 

'  Are  you  all  right?'  he  asked  of  me,  as  the  crowd 
pushed  forward. 

'Yes,  thanks,'  I  said,  trying  to  make  the  best  of 
my  appearance. 

'L,et  me  help  you  home,'  he  said,  as  I  started  for 
the  house,  which  fortunately  was  near  by. 

'Don't  let  me  hinder  the  race,'  I  protested. 

'Bother  the  race!'  he  said,  walking  by  my  side. 
'  They  must  wait.' 

'How  can  I  ever  thank  you?'  I  said,  as  he  turned 
away  from  the  gate. 

'Oh,  never  mind!  See  that  you  don't  catch  cold 
from  your  bath.  I'll  call  to-morrow,  if  I  may,  to  see 
how  you  are. 

He  raised  his  cap,  and  was  gone. 


124  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'Well,  well,  ray  girl,  what's  this?'  said  grandpa, 
coming  to  meet  me  and  thumping  his  cane. 

'Fell  overboard,  grandpa.' 

'What!  and  where  is  James?  Are  you  wet?'  he 
said,  touching  my  dripping  gown.  '  Well,  I  never  ! 
go  and  change  your  things,  and  come  and  have  a  cup 
o'  tea.' 

Some  of  the  young  ladies  in  the  neighborhood  were 
so  cruel  as  to  remark:  'Ah  !  that's  the  way  of  these 
impudent  American  girls;  that's  how  they  catch  our 
handsome  young  men.  They  fall  overboard  and  are 
fished  out.  They  are  always  fishing.' 

The  Ashley  blues  won.  Mr.  Waldie,  for  that  was 
my  rescuer's  name,  came  to  tell  me  so  that  evening  ; 
and  he  smoked  his  pipe  with  grandpa  on  the  porch, 
and  listened  while  I  sang. 

On  parting,  he  looked  at  me  very  sentimentally, 
and  held  my  hand  quite  too  long,  I  thought. 

'Good-night,  Mr.  Waldie,'  I  said  lightly.  'I  wish 
my  husband  were  here  to  thank  my  rescuer.' 

He  let  go  my  hand  rather  suddenly,  and  left  me 
with  a  hurried  'Good-night.' 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

EVERY  morning,  as  the  dear  old  landscape  of  Ashley 
and  the  Thames  opened  to  my  eyes,  it  seemed  like  a 
continued  dream.  The  coaches  from  London  were 
laden  with  merry  throngs  of  tourists,  and  I  began  to 
envy  them.  The  purpose  of  my  life  was  beginning  to 
be  a  burden  to  me ;  there  are  times  when  we  reflect, 
'Is  it  worth  all  the  struggle?'  But  I  had  determined 
to  consecrate  my  life  to  the  musical  art,  and  like  the 
prize-fighter,  the  gymnast,  the  author,  the  barrister, 
or  even  any  trade  or  profession,  there  must  be  a  '  going 
into  training' —  a  sacrifice,  an  absence  from  the  usual 
luxuries,  a  drudgery  of  apprenticeship.  Nothing 
comes  without  effort. 

In  another  week  I  was  to  be  on  my  way  to  Milan 
to  complete  my  studies  in  repertoire.  The  young 
'Ashley  Blue,'  Mr.  Waldie,  would  persist  in  calling 
frequently,  and  I  could  not  be  rude  to  such  a  hand- 
some young  fellow.  Of  course,  I  may  have  made 
dimples  at  him;  but  then,  you  know,  he  saved  my 
life.  My  woman's  intuition  told  me  that  he  kept  his 
eyes  too  much  on  me  when  we  were  alone  together. 

'  I  am  going  on  the  Continent  too.  May  I  see  you 
there  ?'  he  softly  whispered,  as  we  were  about  to  part 
under  the  dear  old  oak  trees  in  the  park. 

("5) 


126  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

Men  have  a  way  of  putting  a  woman  on  the  defen- 
sive. His  eyes  were  eloquent.  Why  are  men  always 
falling  in  love  ? 

1  No.  I  must  work,  with  all  my  concentrated 
energy.  No  more  pleasure  now.  Some  day  we  may 
meet  again, '  I  said  firmly. 

'  Some  day !  '  he  echoed  sadly. 

How  many  hundreds  of  people  we  meet  and  then 
part  from  to  meet  '  someday  I '  But  life's  current  sel- 
dom drifts  them  together  again. 

On  my  journey  to  Milan  I  met  many  family  parties 
traveling  about  with  nothing  in  view  but  pleasure. 
Pleasure — pleasure — their  mission  in  life  !  Their 
happy  faces  always  made  me  feel  a  keen  home-sick- 
ness, and  to  long  for  that  sweet-faced  little  mother  in 
Iowa. 

The  busy  portions  of  our  life  are  always  the  most 
difficult  to  describe.  My  studies  that  winter  were 
simply  a  concrete  mass  of  hard  work.  I  was  up  early, 
and  spent  the  day  trying  to  master  the  Italian  lan- 
guage, until  even  the  drudgery  of  scales  and  exercises 
came  as  a  positive  relief. 

How  hungry  I  was  for  one  word  of  English — with 
the  real  American  accent  ! 

Oh,  those  dear  old  Italian  teachers  !  They  inspired 
me  with  the  real  love  of  music.  An  Italian  has  a  pas- 
sion for  music  that  no  other  nationality  possesses.  The 
trills  bothered  me,  until  I  longed  for  the  magic  wand 
to  convert  me  into  a  bird. 

The  dreamy,  soft  sunlight  of  afternoon  and  the  pale, 
liquid  moonlight  in  Italy — it  is  all  music.  Young  lovers 
passed  my  window  cooing  in  that  soft  musical  Italian. 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  127 

From  them  I  caught  the  inspiration  for  my  operatic 
debut.  I  studied  every  glance,  every  motion,  for  hours, 
for  art's  sake. 

I  received  a  number  of  letters  regularly  from  home, 
but  they  seemed  to  be  written  almost  in  a  foreign  lan- 
guage. I  had  so  steeped  my  brain  in  the  study  of 
Italian  that  I  could  scarcely  read  my  native  tongue. 

In  one  of  mother's  letters  during  the  following 
spring  she  wrote:  '  I  think  it  is  quite  time  that  you 
made  your  debut,  Minza  ;  you  are  going  on  in  years. ' 

Growing  old  !  Oh,  how  a  lonely  woman  dreads  it ! 
With  her,  there  is  no  responsive  mother-love,  no  little 
arms  about  her  neck  to  compensate  for  those  grey  hairs 
and  wrinkles  Oh  mothers,  mothers  !  you  may  be  worn 
out  with  the  cries  and  boisterous  romp  of  those  little 
ones,  but  in  them  you  have  the  only  true  happiness 
known  to  a  woman.  A  pure  mother-love  is  the  nearest 
approach  to  heavenly  affection. 

Mother's  letter  decided  it  ;  and  the  next  day  I  told 
my  tutor  of  my  determination. 

'Professor,  I  want  to  make  my  debut  this  season.' 

He  looked  at  me  rather  startled. 

'  No,  you  are  not  ready.  You  must  dazzle  the 
world.  Your  trills  need  more  finish.  Your  voice  is  not 
strong  enough  to  stand  the  strain  and  blend  with  those 
shrieking,  bellowing  Germans.' 

He  disliked  the  Germans  very  much. 

There  was  another  reason  why  I  was  anxious  to 
make  that  debut.  I  had  a  rival.  She  was  a  sweet  girl, 
had  plenty  of  money  and  friends,  and  her  voice  was 
really  captivating  ;  but  I  will  confess  I  could  not  love 
my  rival.  She  was  announced  to  appear  later  in  the 


128  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

season,  and  I  was  anxious  to  come  out  first  and  settle 
my  fate  before  I  had  to  suffer  a  contrast.  My  weak 
point  was  in  acting — I  was  awkward,  and  could  only 
take  slow  and  dignified  roles. 

The  tenor  with  whom  I  rehearsed  had  a  very  bad 
breath  and  his  face  was  pitted  with  small-pox,  although 
he  made  a  handsome  lover  on  the  stage.  His  Alfredo 
in  '  La  Traviata  '  was  a  finished  conception,  and  our 
voices  blended  well,  though  I  found  it  difficult  to  put 
any  spirit  and  enthusiasm  into  our  love  scene  during 
the  rehearsals. 

'  You  must  have  Signor  Tonza, '  said  my  teacher ; 
'  your  voices  blend  like  a  chime  of  bells — so  beautiful, 
exquisite ! ' 

The  last  dress  rehearsal  had  ended.  My  teacher, 
Signor  Gellani,  was  to  direct  the  opera.  How  his 
baton  inspired  me !  I  found  every  retard,  and  soon 
cultivated  the  art  of  watching  the  wave  of  that  wand 
without  looking  at  him.  The  rehearsal  was  anything 
but  encouraging  ;  my  high  notes  would  shriek  shrilly, 
and  a  huskiness  was  apparent  in  the  lower  tones  that 
would  ruin  any  debutante.  The  impresario  wanted  to 
postpone  the  opera.  I  said,  'No,  my  fate  must  be 
decided  to-night.' 

What  a  tremor  I  felt  in  the  dressing-room  that 
night !  The  maid  brought  my  slippers  first,  and  after 
carefully  adjusting  the  blonde  wig  announced  me  as 
'  made-up.'  I  would  wear  no  flowers. 

'Just  a  simple  rose,  signorital'  pleaded  the  maid. 

'No,  I  must  win  my  laurels  first,'  I  whispered. 

Hark !  The  orchestra  began  softly  the  adagio 
Preludio.  As  the  tempo  increased,  my  heart  beat  faster 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  129 

and  faster.  The  dashing  chromatic  runs  of  the  Intro- 
duzione  had  just  commenced  when  the  call-boy 
appeared.  The  curtain  bell  tapped  as  we  reached  the 
wings,  and  I  hastily  threw  away  the  lemon  I  had  been 
enjoying,  and  took  my  position  as  the  curtain  was 
raised  and  the  male  coro  began. 

A  short  prayer  before  my  first  tone  !  The  wand 
fell  before  my  eyes.  The  crisis  of  a  life  had  come. 
Was  I  to  succeed  ?  I  responded  to  the  signal  of  the 
baton — dancing  like  a  black  demon  before  my  eyes — 
and  sang  the  opening  and  touching  phrase  of  Violetta's 
welcome. 

Many  times  had  I  sung  those  notes,  but  never 
before  had  I  realized  that,  although  a  joyous  response 
of  welcome — it  was  a  Minor  Chord.  Would  that 
Minor  follow  me  through  life  and  influence  my  whole 
career  ? 

I  cannot  remember  many  incidents  of  that  night. 
The  dear  old  director  was  so  furiously  excited  that  he 
nearly  lost  his  place.  It  was  that  first  phrase  which 
must  decide  my  fate.  A  Minor  strain ! 

I  gathered  all  my  strength  for  the  duettino  with 
Alfredo.  It  must  be  music.  The  singing  of  birds  seemed 
to  break  upon  me,  and  I  half  closed  my  eyes  to  the 
blinding  sea  of  light  in  front,  for  the  supreme  moment 
had  come,  and  the  high  note  was  approaching.  I  took 
a  careful  breath  and  sustained  the  note  easily  with  a 
crescendo  and  diminuendo.  My  mind  flashed  on  every 
note  in  the  score.  The  orchestra  was  sympathetic, 
so  that  I  soon  forgot  the  notes  themselves — the  glides, 
the  rests,  the  holds  ;  my  soul  seemed  fired  with  the 


130  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

spirit  of  the  dashing,  defiant  Violetta.  In  fact,  my 
chief  concern  was  the  precise  location  of  my  hands  and 
feet  rather  than  the  score  of  the  music.  It  is  the  last 
phrase  that  usually  impresses  the  audience  for  good  or 
ill.  I  threw  into  the  song  a  tone  that  expresses 
despairing  passion,  but  which  can  never  be  written  in 
notes — a  wail  of  despairing  love.  With  it  came  a 
vision  of  mother  and  home,  and  tears  burst  through 
my  heavily  pencilled  eyelashes.  I  held  the  last  two 
notes  fervently,  loth  to  leave  them.  I  was  afraid  they 
were  falling  short  of  the  mark.  What  mockery  there 
seemed  in  those  last  two  measures  of  the  opera,  '  How 
joyful !  ' 

It,  too,  was  a  Minor  refrain. 

Even  the  accelerated  dash  of  the  orchestral  finale 
as  the  curtain  fell  was  a  crash — a  Minor  Chord. 

There  was  a  wild  outburst  of  applause  when  the 
curtain  had  fallen  upon  the  finale.  Handkerchiefs 
waved,  and  the  little  colony  of  Americans  who  were 
present  were  fairly  frantic;  and  as  I  stepped  before  the 
curtain  I  was  crowned  with  a  handsome  wreath  of 
flowers.  I  was  so  dazed  by  the  rush  of  events  that  I 
forgot  to  bow  my  acknowledgments  until  I  was 
reminded  by  Tonza,  who  had  led  me  on. 

A  few  moments  later  there  was  a  knock  at  my  door. 

'  Come  in,'  I  said  wearily. 

'  Signorita  vas  e-exquizite  !'  said  Gellani  excitedly. 
'  Ze  signorita's  a  great  prima  !'  he  continued,  dancing 
around. 

The  next  day  the  musical  critics  scored  poor  Tonza 
and  me  severely,  with  an  occasional  modification. 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  13! 

But  I  had  made  my  operatic  debut,  and  my  career  now 
began  in  earnest. 

I  sat  down  and  wrote  to  mother,  enclosing  transla- 
tions of  the  most  favorable  portions  of  the  criticisms. 
I  also  wrote  to  dear  Howard  Wittaker,  my  newspaper 
friend  at  Boston,  and  also  to  my  enthusiastic  benefac- 
tor, Mr.  Bluffingame.  But  before  that  letter  reached 
Howard,  he  had  had  syndicate  letters  and  correspond- 
ence wired  all  over  the  United  States:  '  Great  Con- 
quest in  Italy  of  the  Young  and  Beautiful  American 
Pritna  Donna,  Madame  Helvina  !' 

Here  is  where  the  deception  of  my  stage  biography 
began.  He  knew  little  of  my  real  history,  and,  like 
the  usual  American  newspaper  man,  arranged  a 
romantic  career  for  me.  Howard  was  warm-hearted 
and  impulsive,  and  I  never  had  the  heart  to  contradict 
his  fairy  stories. 

'  I  have  taken  the  flood-tide  to  work  up  a  great 
reception  for  you  when  you  return,'  he  wrote,  'and 
you  will  be  received  in  a  chariot  of  honors. ' 

He  kept  aglow  a  curiosity  concerning  my  person- 
ality, which  always  increases  public  interest,  and  gave 
my  career  enough  mystery  to  whet  the  public  appetite. 
Even  mother  did  not  recognize  her  own  daughter  in 
the  newspaper  articles,  and  to-day  very  few  of  the  old 
Smithville  friends  know  that  '  Madame  Helvina'  is 
Minza  Maxwell. 

I  thought  much  of  home  during  these  days,  and  one 
night  I  dreamt  that  I  was  back  with  Tim  at  the  old 
limekiln.  It  was  moonlight,  and  I  was  on  the  island 
in  the  center  of  the  millpond.  Tim  was  standing  on 
the  shore,  crying:  'Come,  Minza,  come  !'  But  thero 


132  THE    MINOR   CHORD. 

Was  a  gulf  between  us.  Mirrored  in  the  placid  waters 
was  the  face  of  Angela.  Angela  !  O  Angela  !  sister  of 
my  childhood  ! 

I  awoke,  and  found  my  face  wet  with  tears.  Even 
my  budding  fame  could  not  bring  back  the  lost  love  of 
youth. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

always  cling  to  whatever  we  first  succeed  in.  The 
author  who  makes  a  hit  with  a  certain  idea  seems  to 
have  that  idea  for  ever  after  hovering  about  him,  and 
the  same  cast  of  character  remains  with  him  through- 
out life. 

We  may  theorize  upon  the  essentials  and  ingredients 
of  success,  immortalize  hard  work,  genius,  and  careful 
study ;  but  thousands  sink  into  obloquy,  into  unknown 
graves,  whose  efforts  are  perhaps  more  admirable  and 
perfect,  from  a  theoretical  standpoint,  than  those  who 
flash  the  flint  and  fire  of  fame. 

My  success  was  in  many  ways  a  chance  ;  it  struck 
a  popular  vein,  and  my  ability  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency that  presented  itself. 

The  vigorous  attacks  of  the  critics  said  that  I  was 
awkward  in  my  acting,  and  had  evidently  never 
known  the  joys  of  a  real  lover  and  the  art  of  love- 
making.  To  strengthen  this  weakness  I  decided  to 
go  to  Paris  and  study  with  Delsarte,  and  take  boxing 
lessons  if  necessary,  in  order  to  be  able  gracefully  to 
embrace  a  lover. 

Dear,  gay  Paris! 

The  course  of  lessons  which  I  took  in  posing  and 
in  plastiques  was  arduous.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  my 

das) 


134  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

every  natural  motion  to  reform.  My  fingers  must  not 
spread  out ;  my  arms  must  wave  in  curves — no  sharp 
corners  in  Art,  no  rectangular  motions — all  in  graceful 
arcs,  as  the  sky  above.  I  must  confess  I  grew  to 
enjoy  it,  and  the  staid  old  butler,  who  accompanied 
me  on  my  walks  lost  his  hat  several  times  when  I  took 
a  sudden  and  erratic  fancy  to  box. 

This  was  Delsarte,  you  know. 

What  a  flood  of  historical  recollections  came  upon 
me  as  I  walked  through  the  streets  of  Paris!  The 
pavements  were  covered  with  tables  and  chairs,  and 
everyone  seemed  to  be  drinking  yellow  absinthe  and 
reflecting.  The  Parisians  ought  to  be  sober-minded 
people,  considering  the  amount  of  meditating  they  do. 
The  Theatre  National,  with  its  imperious  bronze 
figures,  fascinated  me.  Should  I  ever  sing  in  that 
temple  of  opera?  At  Pere-la-Chaise  I  came  upon  the 
tomb  of  H£loise  and  Abelard.  Under  a  canopy  of 
stones  from  the  monastery  of  Abelard  were  the  two 
recumbent  figures — monk  and  nun.  They  were 
buried  side  by  side,  the  emblem  of  disappointed  love. 
The  story  is  old ;  and  as  I  stood  looking  over  the  iron 
fence  at  the  beautiful  flowers,  young  French  girls  with 
pensive  eyes  passed  by  and  flung  withered  bouquets 
upon  the  dingy  old  tomb. 

I  thought  of  Tim. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  I  left  behind  me  the 
shadows  of  the  cemetery.  As  I  passed  through  the 
gates,  the  chimes  echoed  once  more  a  Minor  Chord. 

But,  as  soon  as  I  was  safe  in  my  snug  and  cosy 
room  with  my  music,  the  dismal  feelings  were  dis- 
pelled. 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  135 

Late  that  evening  there  was  a  knock  at  my  door. 
It  was  a  woman  clad  but  poorly,  and  about  to  become 
a  mother. 

'Madame  Helvina,'  she  said,  in  pure  American 
accent,  'it  is  you  or  the  Seine.'  This  with  a  tragic 
gesture,  pointing  to  the  river. 

'What  is  the  matter?'  I  said,  coming  closer  to  her. 

'Two  years  ago  I  came  to  Paris  from  America,  a 
happy,  ambitious  girl,'  she  said.  'I  wanted  to  be  an 
actress.  I  studied,  and  made  my  appearance ;  but,  oh, 
the  temptations,  madame !  It's  the  old  story,  and 
here  I  am,  ready  to  die.' 

She  broke  down,  crying,  and  I  pitied  her.  I  knew 
something  of  the  temptations  of  an  actress.  Wor- 
shipped, flattered  and  adored,  she  has  temptations  that 
those  who  so  heartlessly  condemn  her  never  dream  of. 

We  sat  talking  far  into  the  night,  and  she  told  me 
her  story  in  detail.  She  said  her  name  was  Lila  Ling- 
ham,  and  when  she  referred  to  the  young  lover  whom 
she  had  left  behind  in  America,  and  pulled  from  her 
breast  a  picture  of  her  mother,  I  was  soon  crying  with 
her. 

My  means  were  scant,  but  she  should  not  be  turned 
out  into  the  street. 

Her  babe  was  born  a  few  days  afterwards.  Lila 
improved  slowly,  but  her  face  grew  hard  and  solemn 
when  she  nursed  the  child.  Three  or  four  weeks 
later,  on  my  return  from  a  lesson,  I  found  Lila  gone, 
and  the  baby  crying  pitifully  in  its  cradle.  I  waited 
anxiously  for  some  weeks  for  news  of  her ;  but  nothing 
could  be  learned  as  to  where  she  had  gone.  I  had 
communicated  the  matter  to  the  police,  and  one  day 


136  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

received  a  message  from  the  gendarmerie  to  visit  the 
Morgue  at  once. 

What  a  chapter  of  human  misery  is  pictured  behind 
those  glass  partitions !  The  row  of  ghastly  faces  look 
out  upon  you  with  all  the  conceivable  horrors  of  death. 
On  the  last  table  in  the  corner,  No.  618,  was  the  face 
I  sought.  There  lay  I,ila — beautiful  in  death ;  the 
cruel  waters  of  the  Seine  seemed  to  have  washed  away 
the  deep  lines  of  sorrow  on  her  face. 

It  was  the  old  story  over  again;  and  now  my 
thoughts  were  for  the  child.  I  prepared  to  be  a  real 
mother  to  him,  and  gave  him  the  name  of  Tim ;  but 
two  weeks  after  I  followed  the  tiny  coffin  to  the  ceme- 
tery. The  little  life  had  faded  like  a  tender  flower, 
and  with  it  my  hopes. 

The  death  of  the  little  nameless  infant  had  occa- 
sioned me  a  great  deal  of  anxiety.  I  should  never 
have  been  able  to  go  through  it  all  had  it  not  been  for 
a  Mrs.  Campbell,  an  elderly  Scotch  la<.'.y,  who  was 
then  residing  in  Paris,  occupying  the  rooms  adjoining 
mine.  She  always  wore  a  neat  white  widow's  cap, 
and  her  kind  heart  sparkled  in  her  smiles,  and  even 
seemed  to  glisten  through  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

It  was  in  Paris  that  I  witnessed  a  balloon  ascent 
with  Mrs.  Campbell.  It  brought  back  the  old  sad 
memories  of  Bob.  I  confess  that  I  had  almost  forgot- 
ten the  husband  to  whom  I  was  still  wedded— a  hus- 
band in  the  air  1  Not  a  word  had  I  heard  from  him 
since  that  last  voyage  of  his.  A  young  girl  was  to 
make  the  ascent,  and  it  was  made  a  fete  day  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  The  great  swaying  balloon  started 
on  its  aerial  voyage  slowly  and  majestically.  It  gave 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  137 

me  a  shudder  as  it  lurched  now  this  way  and  now  that, 
on,  up,  up  into  the  clouds ! 

'  Why  do  they  allow  such  nonsense  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Campbell  excitedly.  '  I  call  anyone  crazy  that  would 
venture  on  such  an  expedition.  It  ought  not  to  be 
allowed.' 

'Yes,  but  anything  is  allowed  that  makes  money, 
auntie,'  I  replied,  for  I  had  begun  to  call  her  by  that 
endearing  name. 

'Well,  it's  tempting  Providence,  and  a  man  who 
would  make  a  balloon  has  sold  himself  to  the  devil ! ' 

Dear  auntie !  She  did  not  know  how  every  word 
cut  me.  She  was  so  kind  to  a  lonesome  girl !  Was  I 
widow  or  wife?  Had  I  done  my  full  duty  in  trying  to 
find  poor  Bob?  We  often  meet  people  who  become  a 
conscience  to  us,  and  Mrs.  Campbell  was  mine. 
Should  I  tell  her  my  story?  That  night  I  fell  asleep 
at  her  side — for  she  now  shared  my  rooms — dreaming 
of  Bob  and  his  balloons. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHEN  success  is  once  under  full  headway,  it  is  accu- 
mulative. The  world  worships  success.  While  in 
Paris  I  received  the  offer  of  an  engagement  at  Covent 
Garden  in  London.  I  had  long  looked  forward  to  it, 
and  now  my  dear  grandfather  should  go  to  the  opera, 
although  he  held  to  the  old  ideas  that  an  actress  was 
in  the  lower  levels  of  society.  He  had  served  many 
years  as  butler  in  a  very  aristocratic  family,  and  had 
assimilated  all  the  notions  of  the  gentry.  His  faithful 
life  of  service  had  developed  an  ideal  character,  and  I 
consoled  myself  for  the  lack  of  a  pedigree  by  thinking 
that  the  best  people  must  come  from  servants,  as  they 
transmit"  virtues,  while  their  masters  inherit  and 
re-inherit  the  vices  of  luxury ;  so  that  every  few 
generations  the  servant  becomes  master,  and  the 
master  servant.  I  was  bound  to  cling  to  the  belief 
that  somehow  I  had  good  blood  in  my  veins. 

On  the  first  night  of  my  engagement  at  Covent 
Garden  there  were  members  of  the  Royal  Family  pre- 
sent, and,  while  I  affected  not  to  consider  it  a  special 
event,  I  must  confess  it  put  me  into  quite  a  flutter. 
The  opera  to  be  given  was  '  lyohengrin.'  Elsa  was  my 
favorite  role,  and  how  happy  I  was  to  see  dear  grand- 
father's bright,  beaming  face  in  one  of  those  red  plush- 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIM  A  DONNA.        139 

lined  boxes  !  His  big  blue  eyes  were  wide  awake  like 
a  child's  with  wonderment,  and  he  reminded  me  of 
father.  In  the  box  with  him  was  Mrs.  Campbell. 
His  courtly  gallantry  was  quite  true  to  the  ideals  of 
the  old  school,  and  Mrs.  Campbell's  face  beamed 
brighter  than  ever. 

The  violins  began  with  the  plaintive  high  notes  of 
the  opening  measures,  the  chords  began  to  gather  for  a 
crash  and  climax  as  only  Wagner's  master-hand  could 
make  them. 

I  prayed  to  God  as  the  soft,  sad  notes  which  pre- 
ceded my  entrance  were  given  by  the  orchestra. 

Attired  in  pure  marguerite  white,  I  stepped  down 
to  the  front  of  the  stage  with  measured  steps.  Every 
note  I  studied  before  reaching  it.  '  Music,  my  heart ! 
music  ! '  was  my  cry. 

I  watched  for  the  response.  It  was  to  grandpa 
that  I  was  singing.  I  caught  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
tears,  and  it  gave  me  a  thrill  of  delight.  Every 
pantomimic  action  of  the  opera  now  seemed  easy.  The 
tenor  was  rather  stiff  at  first,  but  I  soon  had  him 
devoted  to  me.  Our  bridal  chamber  duet  was  the  best 
we  had  ever  rendered.  The  spirit  of  the  composer 
came  upon  us.  The  curly  wig  and  jaunty  cap  of 
L,ohengrin  was  my  ideal  of  Tim,  and  I  threw  myself 
into  a  trance  of  childhood  once  more.  The  quiet 
dazed  look — the  innocent  Elsa  expression  which  I  had 
rehearsed  for  hours  before  a  glass — it  was  all  so 
natural  to  me  now.  No  matter  how  many  times  I  may 
sing  a  role,  there  is  alwrays  some  particular  part  that  I 
dread,  and  once  it  is  passed  I  feel  a  sense  of  relief. 


140  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

The  duet  was  my  dread  that  night ;  but  it  proved  to 
be  the  greatest  success  of  the  evening. 

Grandpa  was  satisfied,  and  I  was  happy,  although 
the  critics  were  rather  harsh  next  day. 

'  Minza,  little  Minza  !  Rob'  s  girl ! — and  such  a 
singer  ! '  I  never  dreamed  of  living  for  so  much  happi- 
ness,' said  grandpa,  as  he  kissed  me  after  the  opera,  as 
father  alway  did.  '  So  like  your  dear  grandma  !  How 
I  wish  she  were  here !  Poor  mother ! '  and  he 
brushed  way  a  tear. 

*     *     * 

Grandma  was  dead,  and  buried  in  the  pretty  little 
churchyard  at  Ashley.  Aunt  Manda  was  the  only 
daughter  living,  and  she  had  been  in  service  all  her 
life  with  an  earl.  She  had  almost  been  a  mother  to 
the  family,  including  the  viscount  and  four  daughters. 
They  all  seemed  to  love  her,  and  were  much  attached 
to  her. 

'My  young  ladies'  dogs,'  said  Aunt  Manda,  one 
day  when  I  met  her  in  Hyde  Park  by  appointment. 
There  were  ten  of  them — all  sorts  and  colors — out  for 
an  airing.  '  I  have  just  been  to  the  doctor  for  little 
Pete.' 

'  Doctors  for  dogs,  auntie  ! 

1  Oh,  yes  ;  they  have  all  the  luxuries  of  life.' 

These  four  young  ladies  and  their  dogs,  how  I 
pitied  them  !  Clever,  beautiful,  and  yet  vacant  young 
lives,  simply  existing,  waiting  for  the  matrimonial 
market  to  be  more  active,  and  concentrating  their 
inert  affection  on  dogs. 

I  went  to  visit  Aunt  Manda  one  day  at  the  earl's 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  141 

London  house.  I  entered  by  the  servants'  door  at  the 
rear.  We  took  tea  with  the  housekeeper  and  upper 
servants,  the  butler,  the  valet,  and  powdered  footman, 
and  gossiped ;  they  knew  more  about  the  doings  and 
'  goings  on '  of  English  aristocracy  than  the  lords  and 
ladies  themselves.  Every  carriage  and  coachman  was 
known  to  them.  Family  secrets  were  peddled  out  by 
the  yard.  We  had  scarcely  finished  tea  when  there 
was  a  commotion  outside  in  the  hall. 

'  Maxwell,  Maxwell,  why  do  you  leave  poor  Pete 
alone?  '  It  was  my  lady  calling  poor  auntie  because 
she  had  left  the  dog,  which  did  not  look  worth  a 
decent  burial,  and  in  the  hum  of  conversation  at  the 
table  she  had  not  heard  the  bell  ring. 

'  The  doctor's  here,  and  you  must  mind  his  instruc- 
tions,' continued  my  lady. 

The  doctor  felt  doggy  Pete's  pulse  and  winked  at 
the  butler. 

In  the  beautiful  boudoir  upstairs  no  fewer  than  ten 
little  dogs  revelled  in  luxurious  ease  with  the  four 
young  ladies  taking  tea.  They  kissed  the  dogs,  and 
drank  some  tea  ;  then  drank  their  tea,  and  kissed  the 
dogs.  It  was  an  ideal  scene  of  an  English  lady's 
passion  for  dogs.  True,  they  are  faithful  friends  who 
never  tell  secrets  and  are  always  grateful.  Another 
kiss  and  hug  for  doggy.  Under  those  very  windows 
were  a  score  of  little  children — London  street  waifs — 
crying  and  starving  for  bread.  Even  a  hungry  dog 
will  be  given  a  crust  when  it  is  denied  to  human 
beings. 

'  Maxwell,  you  must  not  loiter  here.  Come  along  ; 
bustle  about,  attend  to  the  dogs,  and  feed  them  prop- 


142  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

erly.'  It  was  one  of  the  daughters,  who  spoke  in  a 
rather  languid  and  irritable  tone.  My  fist  doubled 
instinctively.  My  auntie  a  slave — a  keeper  of  dogs — 
for  these  vacant,  idle,  and  shiftless  beings  who  hap- 
pened to  be  born  under  an  earl's  roof ! 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  viscount  as  he  passed  by 
the  door.  He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow,  but  his 
sister's  words  burned  into  my  heart.  He  was  a  member 
of  Parliament — I/)rd  Hamper,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl 
of  Elferton. 

I  took  a  cab  home,  and  arranged  that  auntie  should 
take  tea  with  me  on  the  following  Wednesday. 

That  night,  after  the  opera,  a  card  was  presented. 
'I/ord  Hamper.'  We  met.  My  eyes  drooped — per- 
haps I  put  an  extra  dimple  in  my  cheeks — I  tried  to 
be  winsome.  He  was  very  clever,  and  sympathized 
with  some  of  my  pet  philanthropic  ideas.  He  called 
the  next  night,  and  the  next.  It  was  becoming  truly 
interesting,  and  the  chorus  girls  all  gossiped  as  to  how 
cleverly  Madame  Helvina  had  caught  the  son  of  an 
English  earl.  Lord  Hamper  was  a  musician,  and  I 
confess  it  was  rather  nice  to  receive  his  handsome 
presents  and  adoration. 

'  May  I  see  you  to-morrow  ?'  he  said  on  Tuesday 
night.  '  I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you.' 

I  dropped  my  eyes  quickly  and  blushed. 

'  Perhaps, '  I  murmured. 

'  But  I  must.     I  have  come  to —  ' 

'  Isn't  that  a  beautiful  likeness  of  Tonza  ?'  I  broke 
in,  anxious  to  change  the  subject,  and  pointing  to  a 
photograph. 

'May  I  come  to-morrow  ?'  he  persisted. 


A  STORY  OP   A  PRIM  A   DONNA.  143 

'Tea  at  four,'  I  said,  rising. 

1  You  make  me  so  happy  !'  he  said,  as  he  bowed 
himself  out. 

The  next  day  he  appeared  promptly  at  four  o'clock. 

I  always  liked  to  make  the  tea  myself,  and  he 
watched  me  with  interest — even  helping  me ;  the 
scene  was  altogether  charmingly  domestic. 

I  was  about  to  pass  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

'  Before  I  drink  a  drop  I  must  know  my  fate.  I — I — 
adore  you,  Madame  Helvina  !  Will  you — will  you 

'  In  his  ardor  in  kneeling  he  had  knocked  the 

cup  from  my  hand,  and  it  contents  poured  down  his 
shirt-front,  and  almost  made  me  laugh  outright.  But 
he  was  in  earnest. 

'You  must  marry  me,'  he  continued,  getting  up, 
trying  to  wipe  away  the  yellow  stain,  and  picking  up 
the  empty  cup. 

'Well,  I'll  see,'  I  replied  cooly.  'Why,  I  expected 
more  company  to  tea,'  I  said,  endeavoring  to  set 
matters  right. 

'  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  I  shall  go  ;  but  let  me 
say  I  love  you,  and  will  make  you  happy  as  my  wife. 
Say  the  word,  my  queen  !  My  queen ' 

He  was  on  his  knees  again,  in  order  to  prolong 
our  tete-a-tete,  and  determined  to  have  his  say. 

At  that  moment  Aunt  Manda  bustled  in,  with  her 
delegation  of  ten  dogs,  from  a  walk  in  the  Park. 

She  was  startled :  he  was  confounded. 

'  My  Aunt  Manda,  Lord  Hamper,'  I  said,  intro- 
ducing her. 

'Why,  she  is  my  sister's  maid!'  he  exclaimed. 


144  THIJ  M1NOR   CHORD. 

'  Is  that  so  ?'  I  said  innocently.  '  She  is  my  own 
flesh  and  blood,  my  father's  sister.' 

'  The  devil  I '  he  gasped,  as  he  started  to  take  his 
leave,  with  scarcely  a  glance  at  Aunt  Manda. 

The  rumor  was  circulated  that  I  had  refused  the 
hand  of  an  earl's  son.  But  I  hadn't. 

There  is  a  tinge  of  class  distinction  left  in  England. 
Aunt  Manda  was  amazed,  and  tried  to  disown  me,  so 
that  Lord  Hamper  should  not  be  so  miserable ;  but 
she  could  not  change  my  birthright.  I  was  Minza 
Maxwell,  decended  from  a  Cornish  pirate  and  English 
servants  ;  but,  above  all,  an  American,  and  proud  of 
it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AFTER  I  had  enjoyed  a  few  days'  rest  at  Ashley, 
Howard  Wittaker,  the  Boston  newspaper  man,  made 
his  appearance.  He  gave  me  quite  a  surprise,  and 
announced  that  he  had  come  to  act  as  my  business 
manager. 

Now  that  the  debut  was  really  over,  and  the  critics 
had  opened  their  heavy  artillery  upon  me,  the  doors 
of  the  large  theatres  in  Europe  swung  open,  and  the 
wrestle  with  managers  began. 

From  lyondon  I  went  to  Berlin,  the  engagement 
there  being  entirely  devoid  of  any  special  incidents. 
The  handsome  German  army  officers  with  their  pince- 
nez  wrere  quite  gallant,  and  attracted  my  admiration. 
My  Klsa  was  severely  criticised — I  cried  over  the 
bitter  words — but  it  aroused  the  old  spirit.  The  Ger- 
mans should  yet  praise  me  in  my  favorite  Wagnerian 
role. 

Everything  in  Berlin  was  strange :  the  Thier 
Garten,  with  its  delightful  and  romantic  drives  ;  and 
the  boats  on  the  Spree  which  are  pushed  along 
by  means  of  long  poles.  Yes,  there  was  worse 
drudgery  than  a  prima  donna's  career !  The 
dingy  old  palace,  the  flashing  statue  of  Victory, 

(145) 


146  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

dear  old  linden  Street — all  these  were  charming. 
The  Germans  live  in  their  beer-gardens,  and  truly 
cultivate  the  social  spirit.  I  stole  a  few  hours  to  visit 
the  National  Gallery,  with  its  rooms  radiating  from 
a  centre  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel.  The  pictures 
thrilled  me,  and  I  quite  fell  in  love  with  Art ;  but  my 
life's  mission  was  Music,  and  I  had  to  tear  myself 
away  for  rehearsals. 

A  week  later  I  was  at  Dresden.  As  incidental  to 
a  prima  donna's  career,  I  thought  a  visit  to  the  Green 
Vaults,  with  their  priceless  jewels,  was  quite  proper. 

What  is  the  worth  of  jewels,  after  all?  We  struggle 
to  own  them,  and  yet  the  humblest  tourist  can  enjoy 
these  matchless  gems  quite  as  much  as  the  royalties 
who  once  owned  and  used  as  every-day  trifles  those 
great  swords  studded  with  diamonds  and  rubies !  The 
radiance  and  reflection  of  sapphire,  amethyst,  emerald, 
opal,  the  sheen  of  pearls,  quite  bewildered  me  with 
their  blaze.  Like  all  women,  I  was  fascinated  with 
beautiful  jewels,  and  was  a  wee  bit  envious. 

Another  weakness  I  discovered  while  in  Dresden 
was  china.  I  enjoyed  selecting  presents  for  those  at 
home,  and  I  think,  if  Howard  had  not  given  me  a  very 
strong  hint,  I  should  have  been  another  thousand 
dollars  in  debt  if  I  had  remained  longer  within  reach 
of  temptation. 

The  second  night  of  our  engagement  there,  Tonza 
fell  ill,  and  an  understudy  was  brought  from  Berlin  to 
take  his  part.  We  were  called  hastily  for  an  extra 
rehearsal  that  afternoon.  In  the  dim  light  of  the 
Opera  House,  with  my  mind  quite  under  the  spell  of 
the  china  shops,  I  did  not  notice  who  was  to  sing 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  147 

Lohengrin.  It  was  a  new  voice,  and  yet — surely  I 
had  heard  it  before.  I  came  up  from  the  dressing-room 
hurriedly. 

It  was  Gene  Paroski ! 

How  my  heart  thrilled!  In  two  years  the  fair- 
haired  boy  had  developed  into  full  and  robust  manhood. 
It  brought  back  the  memory  of  my  first  meeting  with 
him. 

'Madame  Helvina !'  he  whispered  hurriedly,  as  the 
orchestra  began,  and  we  were  about  to  sing. 

The  rest  was  told  in  the  songs. 

He  made  music  of  every  note — not  that  tiresome, 
quavering  vibrato,  that  seems  uncertain  and  wavers 
about  a  semitone  ;  not  that  expletive  angry  gush  that 
tenors  love  to  gurgle  when  in  the  last  stages  of  despair- 
ing love ;  not  that  clever  falsetto  and  head  tone — but  a 
voice  robust,  firm,  clear,  manly,  and  musical. 

They  say  prima  donnas  and  tenors  must  fall  in 
love  to  sing  well.  Musically,  perhaps  they  do,  for  I 
felt  an  affinity  in  singing  with  Gene  Paroski  that  I 
had  never  felt  before. 

That  performance  decided  that  I  was  to  go  to  Bay- 
reuth.  At  last  my  Klsa  was  appreciated,  and  I  had 
found  what  I  wanted — a  sympathetic  Lohengrin. 

During  the  opera  we  had  scarcely  spoken  a  word 
together,  but  the  music  and  looks  expressed  it  all. 
His  eyes  glistened  with  fervor,  but  be  were  both 
unconscious  of  those  in  front.  We  were  Elsa  and 
Lohengrin. 

After  the  curtain  on  the  last  act  he  kissed  my 
hand. 

'To you,  madame,  I  owe  everything,'  he  said. 


148  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

4  Hush  !  you  are  talking  nonsense,'  I  replied. 

'  We  will  live  for  music,  madame,  real  music.  And 
you  will  yet  be  the  unrivaled  queen  of  opera,'  he  con- 
tinued warmly. 

'Don't  flatter,  Gene,'  I  said.  'There  is  a  long 
road  with  many  turnings  in  a  public  career.  But  I'm 
so  proud  of  you  !' 

'  Are  you?  Well,  you're  responsible.  I  can  never 
forget  those  kind  words  of  encouragement  you  gave 
me  on  the  steamer.' 

He  told  me  his  story,  giving  me  a  picture  of  his 
mother  and  himself,  and  we  got  on  famously  in  our 
friendship ;  and,  happily,  he  did  not  mar  it  by  per- 
sistent love-making  every  time  we  were  alone. 

The  ways  of  managers  are  past  understanding. 
Although  critics  praised  our  joint  efforts,  the  under- 
study was  kept  in  the  ranks,  and  I  continued  with 
Tonza.  The  managers  would  not  agree  to  my  sugges- 
tion of  an  engagement  for  Gene  in  '  Lohengrin. ' 

'  You  will  be  getting  married,  and  that  will  spoil  it 
all,'  was  the  heartless  conclusion. 

They  did  not  know  that  Madame  Helvina  already 
had  a  husband  in  the  air  ! 

The  more  stubborn  they  were,  the  more  friendly 
we  became,  and  managed  to  sing  together  many  times 
— alone. 

We  worshipped  at  Apollo's  shrine. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

GOING  home !  going  home !  I  believe  I  must  have 
jumped  about  like  a  little  girl  when  Howard  announced 
it  one  day  in  Berlin.  Howard  was  developing  into  an 
ideal  and  practical  manager. 

I  had  just  returned  from  an  excursion  to  Sans 
Souci  gardens  at  Potsdam,  where  I  had  revelled  among 
the  fountains  and  grounds  made  famous  by  Frederick 
the  Great.  The  terrace  which  the  great  monarch 
used  to  pace  for  his  morning  walk  was  now  overgrown 
with  flowers.  The  little  low  palace  of  one  story,  Vol- 
taire's room,  the  Death  Gate — all  this  regal  magnifi- 
cence, and  yet  the  owner  died  unhappy.  The  scenes 
of  the  day  impressed  me,  and  I  looked  forward  now 
with  pleasure  to  reading  Carlyle's  *  Frederick  the 
Great;'  but  Howard's  good  news  dissipated  my  inten- 
tion. 

1  But  going  home  !  going  home  !  How  sweet  it 
seemed  to  an  American  who  had  been  exiled  for  so 
long !  There  is  no  lustre  in  fame  that  can  dim  the 
radiance  of  home  love. 

When  the  great  vessel  steamed  into  New  York 
Harbor  my  eyes  filled  with  tears.  O  America !  How 
I  loved  my  native  land  !  It  makes  us  better  patriots  to 
travel.  During  the  years  I  had  been  absent  I  had  wit- 

(149) 


150  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

nessed  no  grander  scene  than  the  old  Stars  and  Stripes 
floating  everywhere  in  the  great  city ;  for  it  was 
Memorial  Day — a  day  set  apart  to  decorate  the  graves 
of  soldiers  by  the  children,  as  they  sing  patriotic  songs 
and  do  honors  to  the  heroes,  living  and  dead.  My 
father  was  a  soldier ;  was  his  grave  strewn  with 
flowers  ? 

I  had  not  heard  from  home  for  some  time,  and  my 
old  fears  of  death  in  the  home  circle  were  upon  me. 

During  a  few  engagements  in  the  Eastern  States  I 
had  the  honor  to  thank  and  repay  my  noble  benefac- 
tor, James  Bluffingauie.  My  generous  patron  was  an 
ideal  Boston  gentleman.  As  we  went  to  his  handsome 
home  in  Back  Bay  my  heart  overflowed  with  grati- 
tude. 

'  And  this  is  my  noble  benefactor  ! '  I  said,  advanc- 
ing to  him,  and  introducing  myself  and  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell. '  To  you  I  owe  my  stage  career ' 

'  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  the  stage,  madame.  I  hate 
it ! '  he  said  excitedly. 

'  Why  I  '  I  exclaimed  in  surprise.  '  You  were 
always  considered  the  great  patron  of  the  stage  in 
Boston.' 

'Yes,  but  that  was  before — before '  And  he 

broke  into  tears. 

'Well,  madame,  perhaps  I  am  unreasonable,'  he 
continued  ;  '  but  the  stage  robbed  me  of  my  pretty  lit- 
tle girl,  my  only  hope  in  old  age.  She  wanted  to 
become  an  actress,  and  went  to  Europe,  like  you.  I 

gave  her  the  money,  as  I  did  you,  but — but '  He 

broke  down  again 


A  STORY  OP  A   PRIM  A  DONNA.  151 

'  Was  she  in  Paris?  '  asked  Mrs.  Campbell,  with  a 
kindly  sympathy. 

'  Yes,  and  there  all  trace  was  lost  of  her  for  a  time. 
She  wrote  that  she  was  married,  and  then  came  that 
last  letter,  her  death-warrant.  Poor  I/ila ' 

'  Was  it  in  the  Morgue  ?  '  I  broke  in  quickly. 

'Only  No.  618,'  he  said  sadly.  'Photographs  were 
sent  us,  and  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  horrible  truth. 
We  brought  her  home,  and  she  now  sleeps  in  Auburn, 
beside  her  mother.  The  stage  washer  hell,  her  doom. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  hate  it?  ' 

Should  we  tell  him  all  we  knew  ?  The  old  church 
bell  just  then  sounded  a  Minor  tone.  It  seemed  like 
a  knell  for  poorl,ila.  We  did  not  tell  him  the  sad 
story — it  would  have  been  too  cruel. 

When  we  returned,  I  urged  Howard  to  hurry  on  to 
Chicago,  and  told  him  I  should  have  to  have  a  fort- 
night's holiday  alone  after  that. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?  '  he  asked,  puzzled. 

'  Never  mind.  I  don't  want  to  see  you  for  two 
weeks.' 

Was  I  ashamed  of  my  home  and  my  mother?  No, 
God  forbid !  But  the  deception  had  commenced,  and 
even  he  must  not  know  that  I  was  a  plain  Iowa  girl. 

'All  right,'  he  said  good-naturedly.  'If  you  can 
trust  me  with  all  your  money,  I  can  trust  you. ' 

'  How  much  can  I  have  ?' 

'You've  some  heavy  orders  for  costumes.' 

'  I  must  have  one  thousand  dollars. ' 

'Oh,  that's  easy,'  he  said,  giving  his  elk  charm  a 
whirl ;  '  but  the  engagement  here  must  be  filled  first.' 

There  was  over  a  fortnight  yet  before  I  could  leave 


152  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

the  World's  Fair  grounds,  and  I  telegraphed  for  mother 
to  come  to  me  from  that  little  Iowa  town — my  home. 

The  next  day  we  met  in  Chicago — mother  and  I. 
Oh,  how  happy  I  was  when  we  walked  together 
through  the  grounds — mother  and  I  ! 

The  oratorio  first  rendered  was  'The  Creation,' 
mother's  favorite,  and  how  that  little  face  in  the  centre 
riveted  me !  The  '  cooing  dove  '  passage  caught  my 
whole  spirit — I  sang  to  mother. 

Planzo  Gendar  was  the  baritone,  and  Signer  Tonza 
the  tenor,  and  it  seemed  so  easy  to  sing  the  difficult 
trio  !  The  choruses  were  inspiring. 

I  was  proud,  as  an  American,  to  wander  down  the 
Court  of  Honor,  past  the  Fountain,  and  across  the  bridge 
at  the  peristyle,  and  feel  that  the  wonders  of  the 
ancients  had  been  outdone.  There  was  a  gorgeous  har- 
mony, and  yet  a  soft,  subtle  symmetry  in  that  white 
city,  that  never  can  be  surpassed.  It  seemed  like  a 
dream.  The  Circular  Music  Hall  was  difficult  to  sing 
in  ;  but  to  stir  again  the  enthusiasm  of  an  American 
audience  outweighed  all  other  considerations  to  me. 

As  was  the  rage,  during  the  early  part  of  the  Fair, 
mother  and  I  went  on  a  tour  through  Midway  Plai- 
sance.  The  Ferris  wheel  had  just  begun  lazily  to  turn, 
and  the  Captive  Balloon — what  a  shudder  it  gave  me ! 
— brought  back  memories  of  poor  Bob.  The  streets  of 
Cairo,  the  Java  village,  old  Vienna,  the  Dahomeys — 
it  was  all  a  collection  of  wonders  never  before  gathered 
in  one  place.  We  wheeled  each  other  about  in  chairs, 
mother  and  I,  for  no  carriages  were  allowed  in  those 
great  grounds.  The  Exposition  seemed  like  a  con- 
tinued national  circus  day.  There  were  surging  seas 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  153 

of  happy  faces,  and  yet  I  was  looking  for  one  face  ! 

When  mother  was  tired  out  in  the  evening,  I  used 
to  wander  along  the  beach  of  Lake  Michigan,  as  it  sang 
the  memories  of  childhood.  I  wandered  into  the  Iowa 
building,  with  its  gay  decorations  of  corn  and  wheat, 
and  the  verandas  filled  with  the  happy  country 
people. 

I  was  looking  for  a  face  among  them.  Would  it  be 
there  ? 

I  dared  not  express  my  feelings  even  to  mother.  It 
was  a  heart  secret,  and  the  pictures  of  childhood's 
scenes  seemed  incomplete  without  that  face. 

I  almost  feared  that  the  handsome  Columbian 
Guards  were  beginning  to  know  me,  as  I  took  those 
lonely  walks  along  the  beach  every  night  towards  the 
little  grey  stone  Iowa  Building. 

I  believe  I  was  almost  foolish  and  crazy  about  it. 
In  the  little  groups  about  the  Iowa  building  I  occa- 
sionally caught  a  glimpse  of  a  familiar  face,  but  I 
shrank  away  for  fear  of  recognition.  .  It  was  not  the 
face  I  was  looking  for.  I  quite  expected  to  meet  him. 
Yes !  even  among  the  glories  of  Jackson  Park,  the  regal 
magnificence  of  American  achievement,  with  a  promis- 
ing career  before  me,  and  even  mother  with  me — there 
was  one  thing  lacking — one  face  missing. 

Is  it  so  with  all  of  us  ?  We  can  answer  only  to  our 
heart's  heart. 

I  was  glad  when  the  last  day  of  my  engagement 
arrived.  Mother  now  timorously  ventured  to  come 
with  me  to  the  dressing-room. 

'Why,  Minza,  you  don't  always  have  to  whitewash 
that  way.  do  you  ? ' 


154  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

It  was  the  hare's  paw  and  make-up  box  that 
startled  her. 

'  Yes,  mother.  My  real  self  is  dead  ;  I  am  a  public 
statue  now.  Do  not  ever  let  the  secret  be  known  that 
Madame  Helvina  is  your  daughter.  Let  me  always 
remain  Minza — only  Minza — to  you.' 

The  orchestra  began,  and  I  walked  out  to  take  my 
seat.  In  oratorios  we  can  always  study  the  faces 
before  us  more  than  in  opera.  That  day  I  felt  the 
opera-glasses  levelled  at  me  with  heartless  scrutiny. 
When  I  began  my  first  solo  my  eyes  caught  a  face  in 
the  gallery. 

The  sight  so  startled  me  that  I  nearly  broke  down ; 
my  voice  quivered  ;  the  orchestral  tones  seemed  a  din 
of  confusion  ;  my  voice  sounded  distant  and  far  away. 
I  did  not  dare  look  again  for  those  eyes.  Could  I  be 
mistaken  ?  No,  they  were  there  still,  and  I  felt  I 
could  keep  up  no  longer.  A  moment,  and  I  sang  to 
him  with  my  heart  aching,  and  felt  those  eyes  upon 
me — it  was  Fred  Burroughes.  Did  he  recognize 
Minza? 

But  it  was  not  the  face  I  looked  for. 

Mother  was  startled  when  I  came  out. 

'  Why,  Minza,  child,  what's  the  matter  ?  Are  you 
ill?' 

'No,  mother;  I  saw  Fred  Burroughes  in  the 
audience,  and  it  quite  upset  me.' 

'  Did  he  recognize  you  ?  ' 

1 1  don't  know,'  I  replied  sadly. 

'  I  hope  not,  Minza.  Fred's  gone  to  the  bad.  He 
ran  away  from  his  wife  and  married  an  actress — now 
they  are  "vaudeville"  people,  and  he  has  served  a 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  155 

year  in  prison  for  bigamy.  They  are  not  considered 
respectable  in  Smithville. ' 

'But,  mother,  remember  what  he  did  for  us !' 

'  Yes,  my  child,  but  we  cannot  help  him  now.  It 
would  ruin  you  were  it  known  that ' 

'  Mother,  I  will  see  him  and  thank  him  to-morrow,' 
I  said  firmly. 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  flashing  headlines  in  the 
newspapers  the  next  morning  told  of  the  tragic  suicide 
of  Fred  Burroughes,  the  variety  actor.  Poor  Fred  !  I 
never  expressed  the  appreciation  I  felt.  But  perhaps 
that  is  the  way  of  the  world.  The  pendulum  swung 
me  up,  he  went  down  ;  and  if  no  one  else  mourned  his 
death,  Minza,  the  friend  of  childhood,  wept  tears  of 
sorrow. 

An  '  unknown  friend '  secured  for  him  a  resting- 
place  in  Oakland,  and  a  few  months  later  saw  the  little 
violets  from  the  old  home  in  Iowa  blooming  over  his 
grave. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FRED'S  death  delayed  our  trip  to  Iowa  a  few  days. 
Every  passing  tree,  I  fancied,  nodded  a  greeting  as  we 
sped  away  over  the  rolling  prairies.  How  dear  the 
large  green  fields  of  the  old  Hawkeye  State  seemed  ! 
How  rich  and  fertile  and  smiling  the  landscape  appeared 
that  bright  June  morning  ! 

'  Won't  it  be  a  surprise  for  them  ?'  thought  I,  as  we 
stepped  from  the  train  at  dusk  at  Smith ville,  and 
started  to  walk  home. 

I  rushed  along  the  village  street  ahead  of  mother, 
for  fear  some  of  the  old  neighbors  might  recognize  me. 

Where  was  the  dear  old  house  ?  I  did  not  see  it 
nestling  among  the  trees.  A  larger,  new-fashioned 
house  stood  in  its  stead.  Why  had  they  not  written 
to  me,  and  why  had  they  torn  down  that  little  cottage 
I  loved  so  well  ? 

A  tall  young  man  was  busy  with  a  lawn-mower  in 
the  front  garden. 

'  Does  Mr.  Robert  Maxwell  live  here  ?'  I  inquired. 

'Well,  rather.  And  this  is  my  sister  Minza,  I'll 
bet.  I'm  Jim.' 

The  way  I  hugged  that  young  rascal  was  a  caution. 

'  Where's  father — and  Tod  ? '  I  said  all  in    one 

breath. 

(156) 


A   STORY  OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  157 

'  Father's  over  at  Rathbone's.     She's  very  ill.' 
'  Who  ?     Tim  ?     Children  —Angela  1'  I   exclaimed. 
'Yes,  she's  had  trouble  enough  to  die,'  said  Jim. 
'  But  come  in.     My  !  but,  Minza,  you  wear  fine  dresses 
now, '  he  continued,  with  admiring  brotherly  glances. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  realize  that  this  was  the 
little  baby  I  had  nursed.     I  could  not  take  my  arms 
from  his  neck. 

'  I  must  see  father!'  I  exclaimed,  jumping  up 
hurriedly,  as  Jim,  lazily,  as  a  boy  that  age  always 
acts,  grunted  out: 

'I'll  go  and  get  him.     You  sit  still,  or  don't  you 

want  to '     He  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

'Yes,  I'll  go,'  and  without  taking  off  my  cloak  I 
started  across  the  road  under  the  towering  row  of 
maples,  and  passed  the  sand-pile  where  Angela  and  I 
used  to  play  together. 

Father  saw  me  and  rushed  out. 

'  Minza,  my  daughter  !  '  and  the  little  grey-haired 
man  embraced  me  tenderly.  'She's  very  low,'  he 
whispered  as  we  went  in. 

The  room  was  dark  ;  the  light  of  a  flickering  lamp 
only  was  on  her  paleface  ;her  cheeks  were  sunken,  her 
lips  parched.  It  was  Angela  !  What  must  she  have 
suffered?  I  took  the  thin  hand  and  kissed  it  affection- 
ately. 

'Who's  this? — Mrs.  Brady?'  she  whispered  in  a 
faint  voice.  'No,  no,  its — it's — Minza.' 

With  a  cry,  she  feebly  placed  her  arms  about  my 
neck. 

Angela,  Angela,  sister  of  my  childhood!     About 


158  THK   MINOR   CHORD. 

the  room  was  three  little  children,  all  Tim's,  the  alter- 
nate image  of  father  and  mother. 

'You've  come — come  !  O  Minza  !  forgive '  con- 
tinued Angela. 

'Hush,'  I  said,  kissing  the  dry  lips.  '  Now  rest 
quietly.' 

What  a  flood-tide  of  memories  came  back  as  I 
watched  at  that  bedside  !  Would  Tim  come  ? 

As  I  bent  over  the  suffering  woman  I  could  see  but 
little  trace  of  that  happy  girlish  face  I  had  left  behind 
me. 

I  held  her  in  my  arms  and  she  slept.  It  was  not 
long  before  I  heard  a  noise  at  the  door,  and  the  chil- 
dren began  to  scamper  to  the  kitchen. 

'  It's  papa,  it's  papa  ! '  they  whispered  in  concert 
like  frightened  birds. 

I  was  to  meet  him  at  last — the  face  I  had  so  long 
sought  in  vain  1  My  heart  stood  still. 

'Gi'  o't  my  way,  there!  she's allus  sick — hie — I'm 
a  lord  mayor,  I  am. ' 

Tim  was  drunk  ! 

This  told  the  story  of  that  pallid  face  and  those 
frightened  children.  I  laid  her  down  gently. 

'Don't  go — go — Min — za — he's  only — ah,  uiy ' 

I  walked  out  into  the  other  room.  With  a  light  in 
my  hand  I  faced  the  drunken  man. 

Was  that  the  face  ?  '  Tim  ! '  I  said,  as  he  staggered 
towards  me. 

'Mush  'bliged,  mum,  eh!  Neighbors  always  in 
the  way.' 

'Tim  ! '  I  said  a  second  time,  '  it's  Miuza.' 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  159 

That  seemed  to  sober  him.  What  a  wreck  he  was. 
though  his  blood-shot  eyes  flashed  the  old  fire  ! 

'  Minza,  Minza  !  '  And  he  sat  down  and  cried. 

I  shook  his  limp  hand  as  he  sat  with  bowed  and 
shamed  head.  After  kissing  the  sleeping  face,  as  the 
other  neighbors  came  to  take  the  watch  at  the  sick 
bed,  I  returned  home. 

This  saddened  my  home-coming. 

I  found  Tod  at  home,  proud  as  a  king  in  his  new 
scarlet  band  uniform. 

'  Minza,  Minza,  my  famous  sister  ! '  he  cried  as  he 
hung  to  me. 

How  swiftly  those  few  days  at  home  passed  !  and 
yet  I  was  not  sorry  when  they  were  over  !  Everything 
was  so  changed  ! — there  were  no  familiar  faces  to  greet 
me. 

The  day  before  I  was  to  leave  I  went  to  see 
Angela.  She  was  much  better  and  sitting  up,  although 
very  weak. 

'Yes,  I  shall  get  well  now,' she  said  faintly,  but 
there  was  something  strained  in  her  expression.  I  had 
not  seen  Tim  since  that  first  meeting. 

That  afternoon  we  were  aroused  by  the  cries  of 
children  from  across  the  street. 

'Mother's  dying,  mother's  dying! '  and  when  we 
arrived  we  found  those  three  little  girls  clinging  to  the 
bedclothes  and  being  kissed  '  Good-bye  '  by  the  dying 
mother. 

Tim  stood  weeping  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed 

'  I  have  killed  her,  Minza  !  Oh,  if  I  could  die  too  !' 
lie  cried  in  despair. 


160  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

One  last  glance  as  her  eyes  looked  into  mine,  and 
she  smiled  in  recognition. 

That  was  the  last  on  earth.  Angela,  sweet  sister 
Angela  was  dead. 

I  remained  to  attend  the  funeral.  The  songs  we 
used  to  sing  together  at  Sunday  School  were  to  be  sung 
at  Angela's  funeral. 

The  next  morning  Tim  and  I  stood  face  to  face 
over  the  coffin. 

'  Minza,  I  am  a  wreck,  and  I  wrecked  her  life  too,' 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  dead  face,  now  calm  and 
peaceful.  '  Minza,  in  God's  presence  I  must  confess 
it  all.' 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  over  that  coffin  we 
wept  together. 

She  was  buried  at  the  old  limekiln.  What  a  funeral 
it  was  !  My  voice  broke  in  those  simple  songs  of 
childhood.  My  heart  was  too  full.  As  we  stood  at 
the  graveside  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  of  the  old  walnut 
tree  came  as  a  whisper  from  the  dead.  '  Dust  to  dust ! ' 
Underneath  the  very  spot  we  used  to  sit  as  children, 
Angela  was  buried — the  place  where  I  had  first  plighted 
my  troth  to  Tim  ! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  American  tour  was  soon  finished.  It  was  one  of 
those  lulls  in  life  which  leave  a  blank  behind  in 
memory.  It  was  simply  a  dull  routine — in  and  out  of 
those  handsome  hotels,  of  which  only  the  United 
States  can  boast.  What  luxury  is  spread  before  the 
traveler  !  What  exquisite  decorations  in  dark  corners 
and  corridors,  never  seen  or  appreciated  ! 

Another  year,  and  I  was  to  make  the  great  test  of 
my  powers  in  Wagner's  opera  at  Bayreuth.  I  con- 
tinued my  study  of  the  German  language,  the  verbs 
and  genders  still  puzzling  me.  There  seemed  nothing 
musical  in  the  guttural  tones  of  the  German  tongue.  Of 
course  I  had  many  callers  and  made  many  new 
acquaintances  but  I  was  too  much  absorbed  in  my  work 
to  appreciate  it  all.  There  are  times  when  our  ener- 
gies wax  and  wane,  and  in  one  of  the  consequent  lulls 
I  met  the  Hon.  David  J.  Hendershot,  a  young  member 
of  Congress.  He  was  a  keen,  typical  American, 
always  entertaining  and  interesting.  He  told  me  at 
various  times  the  story  of  his  life,  and  I  found  his 
early  struggles  were  something  similar  to  my  own. 

'  We  have  to  seize  opportunity  by  the  forelock  and 
play  upon  human  nature  as  upon  a  harp, '  he  mused  one 

(161) 


l62  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

day.  '  Do  you  know,  we  have  a  reflection  of  European 
aristocracy  in  America  ?' 

'  No,'  I  replied  warmly.  '  Our  only  aristocracy  in 
America  is  Merit.  A  man  must  win  distinction  in 
letters,  politics,  music,  art,  journalism,  or  even  make 
money,  before  he  is  recognized  as  distinguished. 
Merit  is  our  only  royalty.' 

'  You  did  not  include  the  distinguished  notoriety 
acquired  by  any  fool  of  a  crank.  No,'  he  continued, 
'you  only  know  America  generalize  1;  I  know  it  partic- 
ularized. My  first  political  success  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  the  member  of  numerous  lodges  and 
civic  societies.' 

'  And  have  you  ridden  those  horrid  society  goats  ?' 
I  broke  in. 

'  Yes  ;  you  know  it  is  a  rage  with  us.  We  have 
hundreds  of  different  secret  societies  whose  mission 
may  be  social  or  benevolent ;  and  the  tinsel  and  dis- 
play of  the  Sir  Knights  of  the  Beanpole  in  lodge  rooms 
and  on  public  occasions  indicate  that  humanity  even 
in  America  has  a  love  for  the  flash  of  royal  robes  and 
diadems.  Nowadays  there  is  not  an  American  who 
does  not  belong  to  from  one  to  a  dozen  of  these  soci- 
eties and  lodges.  We  all  wear  buttons  in  our  coat 
lapels,  and  emblems  of  our  degree.  Even  a  hod- 
carrier  may  be  a  Sir  Knight  or  a  High  Royal  Bumper 
in  some  secret  organization.  It  is  a  great  age  of 
societies  with  us,  and  we  all  have  some  hobby  which 
holds  our  interest  and  in  which  we  usually  hold  office.' 

*  Now,  you  are  not  telling  lodge  secrets  ?'  I  asked. 

'Oh,  no,  I  am  only  taking  a  general  view.  Even 
our  labor  organizations  invest  their  leaders  with  jewels 


A  STORY  OP   A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  163 

and  arbitrary  power,  perhaps  modified  by  the  action 
of  a  committee.  I  confess  I  am  beginning  to  believe 
it  would  be  best  to  take  to  the  monarchical  form  of 
government  and  be  done  with  it.' 

'And  you  a  member  of  Congress  I  For  shame !'  I 
said. 

'  Yes,  but  we  must  face  facts  and  not  theories.  The 
absorption  in  making  money  and  the  tremendous  pros- 
perity of  the  working  classes  for  some  years  past  has 
bred  discontent,  which  is  fanned  by  the  agitators.  The 
men  all  want  to  be  masters  ;  the  strife  is  not  so  much  a 
question  of  wages  as  it  is  an  outburst  against  caste 
mingled  with  envy  and  jealousy  on  both  sides.  In 
politics  we  are  taught  to  always  plead  for  the  working- 
man  in  legislation.  Well  enough  !  We  must  look  to 
their  interests  ;  but  have  they  not  just  as  much  human 
greed  as ' 

'  Yes,  but  the  poor  man  is  made  to  feel  the  sting  of 
poverty  by  the  wealthy,  who  flaunt  their  diamonds  in 
his  face,  thinking  that  everything  is  purchasable ' 

'  It  is,'  he  broke  in.  '  Why  do  you  struggle  ?  For 
money  !  Why  do  the  streets  throng  with  people  sell- 
ing matches,  fruit,  shoe-strings  ?  Why  does  the  mer- 
chant fill  his  windows  with  rich  displays  of  his  wares  ? 
Why  do  the  railroads  spend  millions  for  franchises  and 
special  legislation — trusts  absorb  all  competition  ?  To 
make  money.' 

'You  are  too  severe.  Don't  you  know  there  are 
human  motives  aside  from  these  ?  I  never  thought  of 
salaries  when  I  studied  art.  Music  was  my  ambition.' 

'  You  looked  forward  to  a  condition  brought  about 


164  THE   MINOR    CHORD. 

as  a  result  of  the  money  earned — when  you  could — 
you  could — marry.' 

'  Perhaps,'  I  replied  reflectively. 

'  Yes,  money  was  the  medium  to  accomplish  all 
this.  Gold  has  been  the  god  of  humanity  since  the 
days  of  the  children  of  Israel,  when  they  worshipped 
the  golden  calf.  We  worship  it  for  what  it  affords.' 

'  Yes  ;  but  it  brings  little  happiness, '  I  said. 

'  That's  the  philosophic  way  of  putting  it ;  but  we 
all  want  it,  just  the  same.' 

'  You  seem  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
pure,  self-sacrificing  love  in  the  gamut  of  human 
affection.' 

'  Oh  no,'  he  continued,  laughing.  '  It  breaks  out 
occassionally,  but  there  is  always  a  motive  at  the  back 
of  it — nearly  always.' 

'  You  are  soured,  I  am  afraid,  and  I  think  you  do 
not  realize  that  every  human  heart  has  its  good 
impulses.  If  distress  occurs  in  one  part  of  our  country, 
how  quickly  the  people  respond  to  relieve  the  suffer- 
ings !  If  all  human  misery  were  actually  realized  by 
those  able  to  relieve  it,  there  would  be  little  want.  It 
is  because  we  are  in  ignorance  and  do  not  comprehend 


'And  that  ignorance  is  studied,'  he  broke  in. 
'  People  put  cot' on  in  their  ears.  Philanthropy  is  a 
profession.  It  becomes  a  rivalry  of  some  sort  or  an- 
other. Of  course  we  must  applaud  it ;  but  to  me  there 
is  more  philanthropy  in  a  kind  wore1,  sincere  sympathy, 
than  in  a  gorgeous  display  of  patronizing  gifts.' 

1  How  abcut  your  secret  societies  ?'  I  asked. 

'  There  we  have  philanthropy  developed  in  the 


A   STORY  OP  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  165 

highest  degree, '  he  said  warmly.  '  We  look  to  our 
brotheis  as  brothers,  and  assist  them  under  an  oath- 
bound  secrecy.' 

It  was  no  use  my  trying  to  convert  him,  but  his 
eyes  emphasized  every  word  with  a  sincerity  that  was 
captivating. 

We  had  many  talks  together,  and,  although  his 
ideas  sometimes  vexed  me,  he  was  always  interesting. 
In  fact,  he  '  happened '  in  several  different  cities  where 
I  had  engagements. 

During  my  last  week  in  New  York  he  wrote  me  a 
letter  stating  that  his  re-election  was  now  hanging  in 
the  balance,  and  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  heated 
campaign.  The  following  day  he  came  in  quite  unex- 
pectedly. 

'  Madame  Helvina,  I  am  defeated — I  am  a  bank- 
rupt politician!'  he  exclaimed. 

'  Why,  the  election  does  not  occur  till  next  week,' 
I  replied. 

'  Yes,  but  I  leave  this  afternoon  for  the  final  hope- 
less struggle.  My  opponent  is  a  wealthy  man.  True, 
he  has  no  education,  nor  experience  in  legislative 
matters,  but  he  has  money.  I  find  his  handiwork 
everywhere  ;  even  those  working-men  for  whom  I  feel 
so  much,  have  deserted  me.  His  funds  have  been 
well  distributed  among  them.  He  is  a  successful 
business  man,  and  his  money  floats  his  name  every- 
where. ' 

'Perhaps  you  are  prejudiced  ?'  I  suggested. 

'No,'  he  insisted.  'It  is  not  the  man,  but  the 
money,  that  will  defeat  me.  His  ignorance  is  boasted 
of  as  being  one  reason  why  he  is  in  sympathy  with  the 


166  THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

working-man.  He  has  founded  libraries  and  schools 
and  spent  thousands  in  philanthropy  to  win  this 
election.  He  is  linked  with  rich  people,  who  have 
legislative  interests  to  be  looked  after.' 

'Well,  you  can  live  without  going  to  Congress,'  I 
said  sympathizingly. 

'  Yes  ;  but  if  I  had  been  re-elected  I  was  going  to 
ask  you  to — to — to  marry  me.' 

The  audacity  of  the  proposal  rather  startled  me. 

'  I  am  afraid  there  may  be  a  "  motive ' '  at  the  back 
of  this,'  I  replied,  using  his  favorite  words. 

'Don't  taunt  me,'  he  cried  pleadingly.  'Phil- 
osophy is  one  thing,  love  is  another.' 

'  You  think  I  must  marry  political  success,  then  ? ' 

'Yes;  all  women  like  success — and  successful  men.' 

'You  don't  know  a  woman's  heart,'  I  replied 
seriously. 

'No,  that's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out,'  he 
replied. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Campbell  entered  and  our  tete-a-tete 
was  over.  He  left  soon  after,  with  only  ten  minutes 
in  which  to  catch  his  train. 

In  less  than  an  hour  Howard  came  into  the  room. 

'  Next  week  we  sail  for  Europe, '  he  said. 

'  Yes, '  I  replied  meekly. 

'  You've  had  many  proposals  to  marry.  Is  Hen- 
dershot  on  the  list  ? '  he  asked  ironically. 

'Perhaps.' 

'Now,  Helvy,'  he  continued,  using  his  favorite 
title,  'there's  no  use  in  my  holding  back  any  longer. 
Have  I  served  you  well  ?  ' 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  167 

'Howard,  I  can  never  repay  you  ;  but  you're  not 
going  to  leave  me?' 

'  No,  Helvy  ;  I  never  want  to  leave  you.  That  is 
the  trouble.  I  want  you  to  let  me  love  you  ;  I  want 
you  to  be  my  wife.' 

I  turned  away  and  broke  into  tears.  .  Two  pro- 
posals in  an  hour  ! 

'  Howard,  I  can  never  marry. ' 

'  Do  you  love ' 

'  I  cannot  marry  ;  I  am  wedded — wedded  to  my 
art.' 

'  Yes,  but  there  is  another  reason,'  he  continued. 

How  could  I  tell  him  the  truth  ?  My  poor  Bob — 
a  husband  in  the  air — or  where  ? 

'No,'  I  said  pleadingly.  'Don't,  Howard — don't 
make  me  more  miserable  than  I  am.' 

'Then  I  ought  to  leave  you,  Helvy.  I  have 
worked  and  loved  you,  trembling  lest  you  might  forget 
your  wedded  art  and  marry  another.  Promise  me, 
Helvy,  you  will  not  marry  unless  for  love.' 

'I  do  promise,  Howard.  But  you  will  not  leave 
me?' 

'  Well,  if  we  can't  be  married,  my  life  is  yours. 
I'll  be  your  father,  or  guardian,  or '  he  said. 

'  Be  my  big  brother,'  I  said  earnestly. 

And  there  was  no  gushing  foolishness  about 
Howard. 

The  week  after,  we  sailed  for  Europe  to  take  a 
short  holiday  in  Switzerland  before  commencing  our 
work. 

The  parting  scene  on  the  pier  did  not  impress  me 


1 68  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

as  cm  my  first  voyage ;  it  had  lost  its  novelty,  and 
there  is  never  the  same  keen  observation  the  second 
time. 

As  we  passed  the  swinging  bell-buoy  at   Sandy 
Hook  it  still  echoed  the  Minor  Chord. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ONE;  of  the  most  fortunate  things  of  my  life  was  the 
going  to  Switzerland  when  I  did.  It  was  merely 
chance ;  but  on  the  heights  of  the  Righi,  at  sunrise,  as 
I  was  awakened  by  the  long-sustained  notes  of  the 
Alpine  horn,  it  was  revealed  to  me  where  Richard 
Wagner  had  received  his  inspiration  for  the  opening 
scenes  of  '  Parsifal.'  The  first  act  of  the  opera  brings 
to  mind  that  awe-inspiring  vision  of  dawn  on  the  Alps. 

Clad  in  his  leathern  cap  and  fantastic  red  blouse, 
the  herdsman  gave  his  thrilling  refrain. 

Again  it  sounded.  Then  he  gave  a  screech  in 
falsetto,  followed  by  the  Alpine  song,  which  echoed 
down  the  valley. 

The  first  glance  through  the  window  seemed  like  a 
dream  of  heaven.  The  soft,  delicate  purple  haze 
bathed  the  landscape  very  tenderly;  Nature's  great 
night  veil  was  about  to  be  lifted.  The  moon  shone 
clearly  in  the  zenith,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the  clear  steel- 
blue  sky.  The  snow-capped  peaks  in  the  distance 
were  so  mingled  with  clouds  that  it  was  difficult  to 
distinguish  the  celestial  from  the  terrestrial ;  but  the 
snow  had  a  greyer  tinge,  and  even  its  purity  faded 
beside  the  spotless  white  of  the  clouds. 

We  gathered  on  the  topmost  peak  with  half-opened 
(169) 


IJO  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

eyes.  Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken ;  all  were  drinking 
in  the  grandeur  of  the  scene.  Beneath,  the  great 
mountains  were  sleeping  under  a  coverlet  of  fleecy, 
floating  clouds.  In  the  valleys,  a  sea  of  mist  hid  the 
blue  waters  of  L,owerz  and  Zug  from  view.  On  the 
distant  crags,  overhanging  a  precipice,  the  little  Swiss 
chalets  seemed  to  be  sleeping  like  birds  on  the  branch. 
Old  Sol's  first  glow  appeared  between  two  jagged  peaks: 
first  a  soft  mellow  pink  ;  then  spears  of  crimson  shot 
out,  as  if  sentinels  to  announce  his  coming.  Slowly 
and  majestically  the  deep  red  sphere  rose  from  behind 
the  twin  peaks  to  awaken  distant  Pilatus  from  slumber. 
Black,  horizontal  bars  of  cloud  shot  across  his  face, 
giving  him  a  fiery  red-purple  glow  of  anger  as  he 
pushed  through  the  dark  obstruction  in  his  path.  One 
could  almost  see  the  earth  revolve  while  the  heavens 
stood  still.  The  great  orb  changed  color  till  its 
dazzling  disc  glistened  with  intensely  white  purity. 
Another  bank  of  gloomy  clouds  above,  and  the  great 
monster  seemed  to  shake  himself  as  if  to  bore  his  way 
through  ;  when  they  met,  the  fiery  purple  tinge  of 
anger  again  was  seen  like  sparks  from  Jove's  flint.  The 
clouds  and  mists  scattered  before  his  piercing  rays, 
and  like  a  blazing  chariot  he  continued  his  way  through 
the  "heavens. 

The  shadows  of  the  mountains  clung  to  the  dark 
purple  peaks  on  the  other  side.  They  were  soon  dis- 
solved by  the  glow  of  soft  virgin  light  that  seemed  to 
playfully  chase  them  down  the  valley  and  give  each 
peak  its  morning  bath  of  golden  sunshine. 

How  close  we  seemed   to  Divinity  and  to  God! 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  1 71 

Here  was  where  Wagner  caught  his  inspiration,  and 
here  the  Finite  and  Infinite  seemed  to  touch. 

Describe  it  ?  No,  we  can  only  feel  it.  Art  does 
not  exaggerate  ;  no  colors  on  canvas  can  approach  its 
regal  splendor.  How  that  sunrise  lives  in  my  mem- 
ory !  It  was  an  inspiration  I  can  never  forget. 

The  next  day,  in  Lucerne,  at  breakfast,  I  read  the 
following  paragraph  in  a  London  paper: — 

4  STARTLING  DISCOVERY.  -What  seems  to  be 
the  remains  of  a  balloon  and  two  men  were  found 
recently  on  the  south  side  of  the  Wetterhorn  by  Alpine 
climbers.  It  is  supposed  to  be  the  remains  of  a  scien- 
tific expedition  made  some  six  years  ago  in  an  effort 
to  climb  the  Alps  with  a  balloon,  which  has  never 
been  heard  from  since. ' 

Could  this  be  Bob?  I  started  at  once  to  find  out 
the  real  truth.  What  suspense  it  was,  as  I  pictured 
poor  Bob's  dead  face !  His  lonely  fate  haunted  me. 

I  arrived  at  Grindelwald,  and  made  known  my 
mission.  At  first  I  was  regarded  with  suspicion.  The 
remains  had  been  brought  down  to  this  romantic  little 
village,  and  were  kept  in  the  back  room  of  a  carpen- 
ter's shop  till  the  inquest  should  be  held.  How  I 
trembled  as  I  entered !  Was  I  alone  with  my  dead  ? 
Only  two  skeletons,  and  the  ragged  remains  of  a  silk 
balloon !  No  rings  or  jewelry  had  been  found.  I  tried 
in  vain  to  find  the  least  clue,  and  yet  I  felt  that  one  of 
those  skeletons  was  that  of  my  husband.  While  I  sat 
there  as  a  mourner  over  the  crumbling  remains,  two 
Germans  came  in. 

'  That's  the  balloon,'  said  one,  as  they  examined  it 
closely. 


172  THK   MINOR    CHORD. 

Among  the  effects  found  was  a  watch  which  I  had 
not  noticed,  and  the  other  German  picked  it  up  and 
looked  at  it  minutely. 

'Yes,  this  is  his  watch,'  he  continued;  'there  is 
no  doubt  now. ' 

I  looked  up  in  surprise.     Did  they  know  Bob? 

'Who  are  they?'  I  asked  breathlessly. 

'Jean  Valing  and  Jacob  Stransen,  madame.  They 
left  us  six  years  ago,  and  there  is  no  doubt  now  as  to 
their  identity.' 

'Was  not  one  of  them  an  American?'  I  asked 
anxiously. 

'No,  both  Germans.' 

'  But  might  not  one  of  them  have  been  an  Ameri- 
can?' I  persisted. 

'  No,  they  were  both  known  to  me  from  childhood. 
I  remember  well  when  they  started  on  this  fatal 
journey  to  make  scientific  observations  on  the  Wetter- 
horn.' 

They  seemed  to  be  quite  satisfied  that  they  had 
established  the  identity  of  their  friends,  and  took 
charge  of  the  remains.  It  was  not  Bob.  Had  not 
that  balloon  returned  to  earth  ? 

Had  I  only  a  phantom  husband? 

Oh,  what  a  dream  I  had  that  night !  Bob  appeared 
to  me  with  his  aerial  car  clad  in  a  pure  white  robe  and 
took  me  away,  up — up — we  went.  The  heights  of 
Righi  and  Pilatus  faded  away ;  the  earth  seemed  like 
a  rolling  ship,  fighting  among  cloudy  waves  in  a  sea  of 
space.  We  sailed  on  and  on,  and  I  begged  him  to 
return  to  earth.  He  shook  his  head  and  pointed  to 
the  great  blinding  sun,  and  said  with  that  old  boyish, 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIM  A  DONNA.  173 

reliant  look  :    '  Hark !  Minza,  our  wedding  chimes  are 
sounding.' 

He  took  me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me — a  husband's 
kiss — I  awoke. 

The  chimes  still  echoed  in  my  ears.  From  earth 
came  that  Minor  Chord  mingling  with  the  enraptured 
symphonies  of  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  next  month  found  us  at  Bayreuth,  hard  at  work 
with  rehearsals.  The  sleepy  old  Bavarian  village 
has  little  claim  to  distinction  except  for  its  associa- 
tions with  the  great  composer.  The  little  old  grey 
houses  and  narrow  streets  ;  the  old  Opera  House,  with 
its  weather-worn  statues,  and  the  Town  Hall  and 
Cathedral,  the  canal  with  its  bridges — all  these  things 
group  themselves  together  in  our  memory.  What  a 
thrill  it  gave  me  when  I  first  passed  the  house  of  Wag- 
ner !  The  white  bust  of  King  L,udwig  II.,  his  patron, 
occupies  the  position  of  honor  in  front  of  the  house. 
The  garden  behind,  with  its  gravel  walks,  seemed 
charming.  In  these  grounds  Wagner  walked,  or  sat 
and  wrote.  The  square  brick  house  and  the  house  at 
one  side  are  plain  and  unpretentious.  At  the  back  of 
them  is  Wagner's  grave. 

I  did  not  visit  it  that  day.  Kvery  night — even 
before  and  after  the  opera — the  city  resounded  with 
voices  rehearsing  Wagner's  score.  It  is  not  like  sing- 
ing the  simple  song,  melod)',  and  ballad,  where  the 
first  sixteen  measures  represent  the  theme  varied  with 
a  minor  strain,  so  that  you  can  follow  it  with  impromtu 
accompaniments.  Wagner  requires  an  accompanist 
who  must  be  quite  as  much  of  an  artist  as  the  singer. 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  175 

The  spirit  of  Wagner  pervades  everything  at  Bay- 
reuth.  His  portrait  and  bust  are  to  be  found  in  every 
home.  The  children  are  taught  his  music  as  soon  as 
they  lisp.  His  son  is  regarded  with  all  the  fervor 
and  adoration  of  a  royal  prince. 

At  one  o'clock  the  carriages  begin  to  go  to  the 
Opera  House.  It  is  built  on  a  hill — a  short  distance 
from  the  town — a  square  plain  building  of  brick  and 
stone,  in  which  the  stage  occupies  more  room  than  the 
auditorium.  It  was  built  primarily  for  the  production 
of  opera  rather  than  for  hearing  it.  The  orchestra  and 
director  are  hidden  from  the  audience  beneath  a  large 
canopy  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  can  only  be  seen  by 
the  singers. 

At  four  o'clock  the  trombones  announce,  with  that 
German  bugle-call  which  seems  like  an  unfinished 
musical  phrase,  the  time  for  beginning.  The  audience 
remain  standing  until  the  lights  are  lowered,  and  the 
clatter  of  seats  being  let  down  sounds  like  a  volley  of 
musketry — followed  by  a  breathless  silence  in  the  dark- 
ness that  is  almost  deathlike.  A  long  pause,  then  the 
slow,  sustained  notes  are  heard  with  an  ever-increas- 
ing crescendo. 

The  solemnity  of  the  scene  makes  it  seem  like  a 
service  of  worship.  The  chords  gather  tenderly  and 
gently — then  a  crash,  and  the  wild  rush  of  passion, 
reminding  one  of  the  lonely  forest  scene,  breathing  and 
touching  nature's  own  mantle.  The  peal  of  thunder, 
the  roar  of  rushing  waters,  the  gentle  rustle  of  leaves, 
the  gleam  of  peaceful  sunlight,  are  all  woven  into  a 
rich  symphony. 

My  mind  was  taxed  to  keep  close  to  those  puzzling 


176  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

musical  phrases,  to  know  where  to  commence  and  finish 
a  tone,  or  to  hold  the  key  given  by  the  orchestra  as 
they  dashed  on  to  the  next  movement.  The  cue  to  the 
note  always  seemed  contrary  to  what  was  expected ;  to 
plunge  into  space  for  a  perilous  accidental — it  required 
every  nerve  ;  but  I  loved  it  ;  it  was  exhilarating,  and 
stimulated  me  to  my  best  efforts. 

My  interpretation  of  Wagner's  vocal  score  at  last 
obtained  the  approval  of  the  German  critics  who  had 
been  so  severe  in  their  previous  criticisms. 

My  great  musical  ambition  was  now  achieved,  and 
I  had  conquered  in  my  favorite  role.  Yet  in  the 
supreme  moment,  with  encomiums  of  praise  ringing  in 
my  ears,  my  heart  ached  with  loneliness — the  echo  of 
that  Minor  Chord  was  still  present.  Elsa's  plaintive 
feelings  seemed  my  own. 

Nearly  every  day  I  was  visited  by  ambitious  Ameri- 
can girls  asking  me  for  advise  as  to  -a  musical  career. 
How  I  loved  their  bright  fresh  faces,  and  what  pangs 
of  regret  I  felt  that  they  should  desire  to  give  up  their 
young  lives  for  fame,  and  sacrifice  the  contented 
serenity  of  happy  wifehood  and  motherhood  ! 

As  if  in  contrast  to  these  girls,  a  poor  woman,  once 
a  famous  stage  celebrity — a  popular  danseuse  in  Paris 
— came  to  me  for  help.  My  heart  bled  for  her ;  she 
reminded  me  of  I/ila  and  poor  Mr.  Bluffingame,  and 
with  Mrs.  Campbell's  help  I  did  what  I  could  for  her. 

The  only  relaxations  fromthe  serious  atmosphere  of 
that  engagement  were  the  visits  of  a  young  American 
newspaper  man  who  came  to  interview  me.  He  was 
rather  homesick  at  first,  and  told  me  of  his  mother, 
and  this  touched  my  heart,  and  we  became  good  friends 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  177 

at  once.  He  recalled  incidents  in  my  career — the 
'  cooing-dove '  passage  in  'The  Creation' — the  red 
Elizabethan  dress  I  wore  at  Chicago.  He  pleaded  for 
'  features  '  to  make  his  'copy'  bright  and  breezy;  even 
asking  me  outright  if  I  hadn't  a  love  episode  or  two 
that  I  could  spare,  as  he  thought  my  stage  biography 
was  rather  tame  and  abbreviated. 

He  little  thought  how  his  questions  pained  me  ;  but 
his  open,  honest  face  reminded  me  of  a  brother  at 
home,  and  I  could  not  resent  his  curiosity. 

'  And  you  were  never  married  ? '  he  asked. 

'  I  had  rather  say  nothing.  This  printed  slip  con- 
tains my  biography,'  I  replied,  trying  to  evade  his 
direct  questions. 

'  But  I  want  some  fresh  stuff.  Surely  you'  ve  had 
some  love  affairs — why,  I've  had  seven  already  and  I'  m 
not  married  yet ! ' 

The  impudent  little  rascal !  But  his  naivete  fasci- 
nated me.  As  he  left,  he  looked  straight  into  my  face 
and  said  : 

'  Madame  Helvina,  I  adore  you  ;  but  I  shall  have 
that  love  story  yet.' 

The  festival  passed  like  a  dream,  and  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell had  taken  such  excellent -care  of  me  that  I  had  not 
missed  an  engagement,  and  had  only  been  in  poor 
voice  once  or  twice. 

On  the  last  day,  as  I  gazed  out  of  the  dressing-room 
window  at  the  throng  of  people  gathered  in  front  of 
the  Opera  House,  and  overlooking  the  beautiful  valley, 
chequered  with  fields  of  ripening  grain,  I  was  sad,  and 
could  not  help  regretting  that  my  work  there  was 


178  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

over.  The  Festival  had  been  an  inspiration  to  me  that 
will  last  through  life. 

At  dusk,  the  evening  before  I  left  Bayreuth,  I 
visited  for  the  first  time  the  tomb  of  Richard  Wagner. 
Enclosed  by  tall  iron  railings,  was  a  simple  mound  of 
earth,  surmounted  by  a  plain  slab  of  granite.  On  the 
four  sides  the  ivy  clambered  as  if  to  protect  the  silent 
sleeper.  White  lilies  drooped  their  pure  blossoms  at 
each  corner.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  Opera 
House,  which  seemed  to  be  Richard  Wagner's  real 
monument.  The  twilight  gathered  softly,  and  I  felt 
as  if  in  a  vast  cathedral. 

From  this  spot  can  be  seen,  through  a  thicket  of 
small  trees,  the  summer  house  in  which  he  used  to 
work.  Their  lengthening  shadows  seemed  like  silent 
sentinels  in  the  watches  of  the  night. 

As  I  stood  in  meditation,  the  sky  had  clouded; 
suddenly,  the  lightning  flashed,  the  rustle  of  leaves 
quickened  with  the  stirring  breeze,  a  crash  of  thunder 
pealed  in  terror  as  a  climax,  and  died  away  with  soft 
diminuendo  down  the  valley.  Here  the  great  com- 
poser caught  his  inspiration,  always  in  soulful  com- 
munion with  Nature.  He  caught  the  very  breath  of 
the  whirlwind. 

Great  raindrops  began  to  fall,  and  I  reluctantly 
turned  to  leave  with  the  adagio  finale  of '  Parsifal ' 
coming  to  me  faintly  : — 

'  Beloved  Saviour, 
Blessed  Redemption.' 

He  was  at  rest,  and  his  heart's  yearning  was  satis- 
fied. The  storm  and  tempests  of  mortal  life  had  passed 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  179 

for   ever,  and  he  had  joined   in   the   heavenly  sym- 
phonies, which  have  revealed  the  mysteries  of  earth. 

'  Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him  ! ' 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

'  MY  dear  Helvy,  your  position  is  secure.  Three  offers 
for  engagements  are  here  awaiting  your  acceptance,' 
said  Howard  as  he  entered  my  room  hurriedly  one 
morning. 

'  Where  are  they  from,  Howard  ? '  I  inquired 
eagerly. 

'  One  from  Paris,  and  one  from  New  York ' 

'And  the  third?' 

'  Mine, '  he  said  laughing. 

The  silly  fellow  !  he  had  proposed  again,  but  I  was 
becoming  used  to  it. 

'  The  third  is  out  of  the  question,  and  I  propose  we 
go  to  Brussels  as  arranged.' 

It  was  at  Brussels  that  I  met  my  old  friend, 
Arundel  Sunderland,  the  composer.  We  had  formed 
a  platonic  friendship  a  year  or  so  before.  He  was  a 
charming  man,  a  clever  composer,  and  a  bachelor  well 
seasoned  into  the  forties. 

'I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,'  he  said,  as  we  shook 
hands,  '  and  I  hope  I  may  see  much  of  you  during  your 
stay  here.' 

Howard  had  arranged  various  interesting  excur- 
sions for  me,  but  he  did  not  look  very  pleased  when 
Arundel  joined  us  nearly  every  day. 

(180) 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  l8l 

'  By  the  way,  Madame  Helvina, '  said  Arundel  one 
day,  '  I  have  just  finished  the  score  of  my  first  grand 
opera,  "Evangeline,"  and  I  have  created  the  title-  role 
for  you.  Will  you  honor  me  by  undertaking  the  task  ? ' 

This  was  indeed  gratifying  to  me.  He  described 
to  me  in  detail  the  scene,  the  plot,  and  action,  and 
whistled  some  of  the  arias  to  give  me  an  idea  of  the 
theme,  which  made  me  eager  to  try  it  for  myself. 

Arundel  was  so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  he  could 
think  and  talk  of  nothing  else. 

First  impressions  are  difficult  to  dissipate.  When 
I  heard  the  opening  measures  of  '  Evangeline '  my 
opinion  was  formed.  The  harmony  was  certainly 
massive,  but — could  I  tell  him  ? — it  was  but  an  echo  of 
Wagner  with  a  reflection  of  Gounod's  'Romeo  and 
Juliet.'  The  title-role  was  simply  unsingable,  and  I 
tried  my  best  to  pour  soul  into  it ;  but  the  opera  was 
too  much  of  a  polished  imitation  of  the  great  masters 
to  give  play  for  a  finished  and  original  conception. 
It  lacked  inspiration  and  continuity,  and  seemed  more 
of  a  compilation  of  chords  than  a  composition. 

'  How  do  you  like  it  ?  he  asked  breathlessly,  his 
black  eyes  sparkling. 

'I  have  hardly  given  it  a  fair  trial  yet,'  I  replied, 
trying  to  evade  the  question. 

'  But  you  will  help  me  to  bring  it  out  ? ' 

'  Thank  you,  I  will  try  ;  and  indeed  I  feel  grateful 
to  you  for  the  honor  you  do  me. ' 

'  I  had  you  in  my  mind,  madame,  as  I  wrote  every 
measure.' 

I  hardly  knew  how  to  tell  him  the  truth.  In 
light  opera  he  was  clever,  and  a  hard  worker  ;  and  his 


1 82  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

triumph  would  undoubtedly  come  some  da.y  in  grand 
opera,  but  it  was  hardly  to  be  found  in  the  score  of 
'Evangeline.' 

I  rehearsed  and  rehearsed,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  It 
seemed  like  an  operatic  mill-stone.  I  tried  to  express 
this  to  him,  but  I  could  not  make  him  understand.  ^ 

'  And  you  will  take  the  title-rate  ?  '  he  persisted 
one  day,  after  I  had  wearied  myself  with  the  unsing- 
able  score. 

'I  am  afraid,'  I  said  hesitatingly. 

'  Don't  desert  me  now,'  he  pleaded,  almost  passion- 
ately. 

'  Well,  I  will  do  my  best  for  you,  but ' 

'Many  thanks  for  that  kind  assurance,  Madame 
Helvina,'  he  replied.  'With  you  I  know  my  opera 
will  be  safe.' 

In  a  few  weeks  we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  final 
rehearsals.  L,ittle  do  the  public  realize  the  immense 
amount  of  real  hard  work  and  drudgery  required  to 
stage  a  new  opera. 

The  first  night  arrived. 

The  overture  began.  My  nervousness  increased, 
as  even  the  opening  song  was  unmanageable.  The 
love-making  of  the  first  actpassed  off  smoothly  enough, 
excepting  for  a  few  blunders  of  the  '  prop '  man,  and 
that  when  one  of  the  'boats  '  refused  to  float  majesti- 
cally the  pit  and  gallery  were  amused.  In  the  second 
act,  during  a  pathetic  search  for  missing  Gabriel,  I 
did  try  so  hard  to  make  music  of  the  score,  but  just  at 
the  most  unfortunate  time  the  tenor  broke  on  his  high 
C  and  there  was  confusion.  I  rallied  the  chorus,  on 
the  ensemble,  but  felt  that  the  opera  had  failed. 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  183 

With  a  flush  of  excitement  Arundel  came  to  me 
after  the  finale. 

'  Madame  Helvina,  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  ; 
you  have  carried  the  opera,'  and  he  led  me  before  the 
curtain  to  receive  the  acknowledgments  of  the  audi- 
ence, who  were  indulging  in  the  usual  first-night 
applause. 

But  I  felt  that  the  opera  was  a  failure. 

The  critics  next  morning  thoroughly  confirmed  my 
fears  ;  they  said  I  was  unequal  to  the  role,  and  that 
my  voice  was  rapidly  failing.  The  opera  had  only  a 
short  run,  as  the  managers  were  panic-stricken.  It 
was  rather  an  inglorious  sequel  to  my  Continental 
success. 

Howard  was  furious,  and  had  no  sympathy  for 
Arundel,  who  was  rather  crushed. 

'  I  will  make  them  regret  it  yet,'  hissed  Arundel. 
'  If  it  were  not  for  you,  I  should  not  care,  but  you 
sacrificed  yourself  for  me. ' 

'  Oh  no,  no, '  I  protested.  'We  must  expect  ups 
and  downs  and  be  ready  to  make  sacrifices.' 

'  Would  you  make  another  sacrifice  for  me  ?  ' 

'  What  is  that   ? '     I  inquired. 

'  Will  you  be  my  wife  ?  You  surely  intend  to 
retire  from  the  stage  some  day  ?  I^et  us  live  together 
for  the  divine  art,  and ' 

'  It  can  never  be,'  I  broke  in  excitedly. 

This  seemed  to  rather  startle  him. 

'Why?' 

'  I  shall  never  marry.' 

'  Let  us  always  be  friends,  then, '  he  said  softly, 
'and forget  what  I  have  said.' 


1 84  THE   MINOR  CHORD. 

'Thank  you,'  I  replied;  'I  cannot  afford  to  lose 
my  friends,'  and  I  gave  him  my  hand. 

'You  will  remain  my  life's  inspiration,' he  said 
earnestly. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

DURING  the  following  weeks  I  was  quite  surprised  by 
a  visit  from  the  young  American  newspaper  man 
whom  I  had  met  a  Bayreuth. 

4  Madame  Helvina,  I've  an  awfully  good  love  story, 
and '  he  exclaimed  as  a  greeting. 

'  Why,  when  did  you  arrive  ?  ' 

'This  morning,  madame,  and  the  article  would  be 
just  right  if  you'd  only  allow  me  a  wee  bit  of  romance 
to  work  up.  I  can  fix  it.  Please  do.'  His  eyes 
danced  with  real  delight  and  enthusiasm. 

'  No,  my  boy,  my  life  is  my  own.  You  must  not 
deceive ' 

'  Yes,  but  I've  a  corker  —better  than  stolen  dia- 
monds— or  getting  married — or  a  divorce — it's  a  hus- 
band in  the  air  ! ' 

I  paled  under  his  glance.  Did  he  know  the  real 
truth  ?  I  must  know. 

'  What  nonsense  have  you  in  your  head  now  ?  ' 
trying  to  speak  unconcernedly.  '  Come  and  have  tea 
with  me  to-morrow,  I  cannot  stay  to  talk  now.' 

After  he  had  gone  I  wondered  what  had  suggested 
the  idea  to  him. 

During  this  engagement  the  first  real  trouble 
between  the  rival  prima  donnas,  of  whom  I  was  one, 

(185) 


1 86  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

occurred.  Quarrels  behind  the  scenes  may  furnish 
good  newspaper  gossip,  but  to  me  they  are  most 
revolting,  and  I  had  hitherto  successfully  avoided 
them.  The  most  insignificant  trifles  often  lead  to  the 
most  serious  disputes. 

'I  will  not  sing  with  Helvina.'  It  was  Marie 
Almster  talking  to  the  manager  in  my  hearing.  Hop- 
ing to  avoid  a  quarrel,  I  paid  no  attention  to  her 
remarks.  '  She  has  snubbed  me,  and  has  talked  too 
much,'  she  continued. 

'But  you  are  not  spiting  her,  but  injuring  me,' 
protested  the  manager. 

'  Well,  you  ought  to  know  better  than  to  sign  with 
that  American  upstart.  She  thinks  herself  too  fine, 
and  comes  of  a  low  servant  family.' 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

'The  young  lady  will  not  have  the  opportunity  oi 
singing  with  me,'  I  interposed  sarcastically. 

'What!  and  you,  too,  Madame  Helviua!'  gasped 
the  manager. 

'Yes,  I  will  sing  an  extra  solo,  and  you  can  cut  the 
duet  in  the  concert  programme. ' 

'But  it  will  be  too  much  of  a  strain  on  your  voice,' 
he  suggested. 

'  Never  mind  ;  the  programme  shall  not  suffer  by 
this  uniortunate  affair. ' 

'  This  is  not  the  end,  Madame  Helvina, '  said  the 
little  German  lady,  looking  at  me  fiercely. 

It  was  only  an  ordinary  stage  quarrel,  but  somehow 
the  threat  of  Marie  Almster  worried  me. 

The  events  of  the  day  had  put  me  in  a  most  miser- 
able frame  of  mind,  and  when  I  arrived  home  a  cable- 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIM  A   DONNA.  187 

gram  was  handed  me.  Another  offer  for  an  American 
engagement !  thought  I,  as  I  tore  it  open,  but  instead 
of  that,  the  cruel  message  met  my  eyes  : 

'  Tod  died  this  morning — buried  Wednesday. 

MAXWEH,.  ' 

As  the  broken  arc  ol  the  little  home  circle  appeared 
to  me  in  my  grief,  empty  and  vain  seemed  my  struggle 
for  fame.  Tod,  Tod !  how  his  face  haunted  me,  as  I 
lingered  in  memory  over  the  last  time  I  had  seen 
him  1 

I  longed  to  be  at  home  to  comfort  mother  in  her 
deep  sorrow. 

'  No, '  came  the  cruel  demands  of  business.  '  Your 
engagements  must  be  fulfilled.' 

Only  a  few  hours  alone  to  mourn  a  dead  brother  in 
a  distant  land  !  How  every  scene  at  that  death-bed 
was  pictured,  and  how  vividly  it  brought  back  mem- 
ories of  little  Joe — one  more  grave  on  the  hill ! 

My  eyes,  red  from  weeping,  were  covered  with 
powder  that  night  as  I  threw  myself  into  my  task  with 
an  aching  heart. 

The  minor  passages  were  in  tune  with  my  heart, 
as  in  fancy  I  was  back  in  that  grief-stricken  house- 
hold. 

My  lips  were  sealed  to  all  but  Mrs.  Campbell,  who 
had  indeed  proved  herself  a  true  '  mother'  to  a 
wandering  singer,  and  had  decided  to  travel  with 
me. 

'I  must  return  to  America  at  once,  Howard,'  I 
said  one  day. 

'  My  dear  Helvy,  we  are  just  on  the  point  of  sign- 


188  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

ing  the  greatest  contract  you  have  ever  had. 
Surely ' 

'Howard,  I  must  go,'  I  said  firmly. 

'  That's  the  way  it  goes !'  he  said  in  a  disappointed 
tone  of  voice.  'One  can  never  reckon  on  women.' 

I  was  determined.  It  was  one  of  those  times  when 
we  feel  that  the  whole  world  is  as  nothing  compared 
with  our  loved  ones. 

'  Very  well,  then,  we'll  sail  next  week,'  he  finally 
assented. 

The  last  evening  I  appeared  in  opera  before  sailing 
Marie  Almster  sang  with  me.  In  a  quarrel  scene  she 
actually  became  in  earnest  and  bit  my  arm  savagely. 
I  screamed  out  in  pain  (and  it  was  not  a  musical  note 
either),  and  rushed  off  the  stage.  The  director  was 
thunderstruck,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  opera  would 
fall  in  a  crash  during  that  duet.  Gene  Paroski,  who 
sang  that  night,  was  waiting  his  cue  in  the  wing,  and 
saw  what  had  happened  and  took  in  the  situation 
at  a  glance.  He  hurried  on  before  his  cue,  and  the 
director,  seeming  to  divine  his  motive,  held  up  the 
orchestra  to  finish  a  phrase,  and  gave  the  signal  for 
the  opening  bars  of  Gene's  aria.  While  the  orchestra 
were  finding  their  places  he  kept  a  single  violin  play- 
ing an  impromptu  interlude.  Madame  Almster  stood 
as  if  dazed  when  Gene  made  his  unexpected  appear- 
ance, but,  as  if  it  had  been  apart  of  the  'business,'  he 
unceremoniously  dragged  her  from  the  stage. 

She  had  evidently  deliberately  planned  to  mar  the 
performance  and  injure  my  musical  reputation. 

Once  ic  the  dressing-room  she  was  furious  and 
raved  like  a  mad  woman. 


A  STORY   OF   A    PRIM  A   DONNA.  189 

'  I  hate  her !     I  hate  her  !'  I  heard  her  shriek. 

Fortunately  her  understudy,  who  resembled  her 
somewhat,  and  was  available,  completed  the  few 
remaining  numbers  after  a  hasty  make-up. 

But  I  was  not  so  fortunate,  and  with  my  arm  sting- 
ing with  pain  I  was  compelled  to  continue.  I  never 
heard  Gene  Paroski  sing  better,  and  his  tender  sym- 
pathizing looks  were  very  consoling  as  I  threw  myself 
into  his  arms  in  earnest,  as  if  for  protection. 

The  audience,  little  realizing  the  tempest  raging 
behind  the  scenes,  gave  us  the  most  enthusiastic 
reception  of  the  season. 

Gene  Paroski  and  I  had  a  longer  talk  than  usual 
that  night. 

'  When  did  you  notice  anything  wrong  to-night  ?' 
I  asked. 

'Not  until  she  bit  you,'  he  replied.  'Her  face 
looked  like  that  of  a  maniac,  and  I  was  determined  to 
stop  her  and  save  the  opera,  if  I  had  to  fling  her  into 
the  pit.' 

It  was  a  nine  days'  sensation  in  operatic  circles,  but 
blew  over  without  an  open  scandal. 

The  preparations  for  returning  to  America  proceeded 
rapidly,  and  among  the  trophies  which  I  carried  back 
was  a  street  piano  organ — a  hurdy-gurdy.  I  had 
become  quite  fascinated  with  them  in  London  and  on 
the  Continent,  where  my  morning  slumber  was  brokeu 
by  the  refrain  of  'After  the  Ball,'  'Two  Little  Girls  in 
Blue,'  and  so  forth — the  popular  American  music.  I 
must  confess  these  airs  had  a  piquant  charm  about 
them  for  me  after  a  concentrated  study  of  Wagner's 
music. 


IQO  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'  Howard,  I  want  a  hurdy-gurdy  to  take  back  to 
America,'  I  had  said  one  day. 

He  was  greatly  astonished. 

'  There  is  no  explaining  these  women, '  he  muttered. 
But  he  bought  the  hurdy-gurdy. 

As  I  stood  upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer  which  was 
about  to  sail,  Hal  Cogswell,  the  irrepressible  young 
American  I  had  met  at  Bayreuth,  came  running  up  the 
gangway. 

'  Deny  it — deny  it — a  lie  and  a  slander  !  Sue  them, 
or  I'll  kill  them!'  he  exclaimed  excitedly  in  alow  tone 
to  me. 

'You  are  excited;  what  is  it?'  I  asked. 

'  Read  this, '  he  exclaimed,  as  he  handed  me  a  news- 
paper and  pointed  to  a  marked  paragraph. 

It  was  one  of  those  cheap  publications,  edited  by  a 
masculine  '  L,ady  Sneerwell, '  whose  specific  object  is 
to  probe  into  the  privacy  of  home,  and  retail  black- 
mail and  scandal. 

I  read : 

'IT  LOOKS  STRANGE.' 

'  Madame  Helvina's  sudden  departure  for  America, 
after  signing  contracts  for  numerous  engagements, 
occasions  considerable  speculation  in  theatrical  circles. 
Some  intimate  that  her  managers  are  fearful  of  their 
bargain,  and  ask  to  be  released,  because  her  voice  is 
failing  and  her  acting  lacks  the  fire  and  vivacity  of 
youth  ;  others  assert  that  there  is  a  scandal  with  the 
tenor,  and  that  they  are  going  to  be  married  in 
America  as  soon  as  he  secures  his  divorce.  Madame 
Helvina  has  a  large  circle  of  admirers,  who  will  regret 
this  cloud  upon  her  artistic  career.' 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  1QI 

During  the  whole  of  my  life  this  was  the  first  time 
a  suspicion  had  been  breathed  against  my  character. 
That  was  the  one  thing  I  held  dearer  than  life.  It 
had  been  burned  into  my  very  soul  by  mother — with- 
out chastity,  a  woman  is  not  a  woman  ;  without  pur- 
ity, a  woman  is  nothing. 

'  Who  could  have  been  so  cruel  and  malicious  ? '  I 
said,  with  tears  in  my  eyes. 

'  I  suspect  Almster, '  said  Hal,  '  and  if  you  will 
give  me  authority,  I  will  make  her  weep  tears  of 
blood  for  this  cowardly  trick,'  he  continued,  warmly. 

'  Hal,  you  are  a  good  boy,'  I  said,  giving  him  my 
hand. 

'And  you're  my  queen,  Madame  Helvina.  I'm 
hanged  if  I  don't  feel  like  fighting  a  duel  with  the 
cowardly  editor. 

'  Don't  be  rash,  my  boy ' 

'  Rash  !  no,  but  I'm  going  to  stay  here  a  month 
longer  and  see  this  thing  through.' 

The  bell  sounded  an  interruption. 

'  Good-bye,  Hal, '  I  said,  looking  into  his  earnest 
boyish  face. 

'Good-bye.  Remember  you've  got  a  friend  in  me 
forever,'  he  said,  as  he  hurried  through  the  surging 
crowd.  The  last  I  saw  of  him,  he  was  waving  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  from  among  the  throng  on  the  pier. 

The  old  tremor  of  the  Minor  Chord  crept  upon  me. 
My  enemies  now  sought  my  character  !  Joy  and  gri  ef 
— sorrow  and  happiness — they  mingle  together  in  the 
same  breath  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

'I  MUST  have  another  week's  holiday  alone,'  I  said  to 
Howard,  the  day  we  reached  Chicago. 

He  seemed  to  suspect  that  there  was  a  secret,  but 
'dear  Mrs.  Campbell  satisfied  his  curiosity  in  some  way, 
and  he  grumbled  an  assent. 

How  consoling  it  was  to  feel  my  mother's  thin  and 
trembling  arms  about  my  neck  as  we  buried  our  faces 
in  each  other's  shoulders  and  wept  for  Tod,  after  my 
arrival  home. 

No  caress  like  that  of  a  mother,  even  to  a  mature 
woman  ! 

Together  we  visited  the  new  mound  of  yellow  earth 
still  wet  with  the  tears  of  grief.  I  could  scarcely 
realize  that  Tod  was  lying  beneath  it,  and  it  was  also 
the  first  time  I  had  seen  the  grave  of  little  Joe  since 
his  burial. 

'  I  visited  all  the  scenes  of  childhood,  and  Angela's 
grave  at  the  old  limekiln. 

'  Where  is  Tim  ?     Is  he  alive  ? ' 

Mother  seemed  to  anticipate  the  inquiry. 

'Yes,  but  he  is  a  wreck — an  invalid — and  his 
children  are  so  devoted  to  him  !  Will  you  see  him  ? 
He  sits  every  afternoon  in  his  chair  under  the  maples, 
where  you  children  used  to  play.' 

Us?) 


A  STORY  OP  A   PRTMA  DONNA.  193 

We  went  across  the  street.  A  little,  curly,  golden- 
haired  daughter,  the  very  image  of  Tim,  wheeled  him 
out  in  his  chair.  His  face  was  pale  and  wan,  and  yet 
how  spiritual  !  The  curls  were  gone,  but  grey  hairs 
showed  against  the  little  velvet  cap  he  wore.  The  fire 
of  youth's  ambition  was  quenched  ;  a  peaceful,  pallid 
face,  waiting  for  death  ' 

His  countenance  brightened  with  that  familiar  old 
smile  as  we  approached. 

'  Oh,  its  Mrs.  Maxwell,  I  know.  How  kind  of  you  ! 
But  who's ' 

'  It's  Minza,  Tim  ! '  I  cried,  going  towards  him. 

He  did  not  seem  to  recognize  me.  He  turned 
towards  me. 

'  Don't  you  know  me,  Tim  ?  '  I  continued. 

'  Minza,  bright  little  Minza  ! '  he  cried.  '  God 
bless  you  !  Come  nearer  and  let  me  touch  you.' 

'  Here  I  am,  Tirn/  I  said,  taking  his  hand.  'Why 
don't  you  look  at  me? ' 

'  Haven't  they  told  you,  Minza  ?' 

'Told  me  what?' 

'  I  am  blind  now,  and  can  never  see  you  again.' 

What  a  shock  his  words  gave  me  !  I  kneeled,  and 
he  placed  his  hands  on  my  head. 

'  Such  pretty  hair  it  used  to  be,  Minza  1 ' 

Blind !  O  love  of  my  childhood,  how  my  heart 
pitied  him  ! 

His  affliction  obliterated  the  memory  of  our  last 
meeting,  and  I  could  only  remember  the  Tim  of  my 
youth.  There  was  the  old  familiar  wave  of  the  hand, 
the  twitch  of  the  brow,  that  even  time  and  trouble  had 
not  effaced. 


194  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

It  was  touching  to  see  how  dependent  he  was  on 
the  two  children  who  remained  at  home,  while  the 
elder  struggled  to  earn  a  living  to  support  hei  blind 
father. 

Mother  left  us  talking  happily  together  under  the 
maples,  and  when  I  returned  to  her  she  told  me  the 
pathetic  story  of  how  Tim  had  lost  his  sight 

After  the  death  of  Angela  he  was  ill  for  some  time, 
and  he  made  a  desperate  effort  to  conquer  his  appetite 
for  drink.  He  was  successful,  but  scarcely  had  that 
dark  cloud  disappeared  when  his  sight  was  threatened. 
In  spite  of  all  that  the  most  eminent  oculists  could  do, 
he  returned  home — just  one  year  after  Angela's  death, 
hopelessly  blind. 

He  had  paid  a  heavy  penalty  for  those  years  of 
dissipation. 

Zella,  the  eldest  daughter,  was  employed  in  a  large 
town  near  as  a  typewriter  and  clerk.  They  expected 
her  home  the  next  day.  Her  father  was  very  proud 
of  her,  and  even  my  brother  Jim  sang  her  praises  to 
me. 

'Zella  is  so  like  you,'  said  Tim  to  me  one  day. 
1  She  is  a  good  girl  and  ambitious  to  be  somebody.  She' s 
always  sending  me  pretty  things  and  money.  She 
receives  a  splendid  salary.' 

Zella  came  home  the  following  day,  but,  oh — can  I 
tell  it? — she  came  home  with  a  secret.  To  mother  and 
me  she  told  the  sad  story.  A  generous  employer 
indeed  !  But  he  had  demanded  his  price  !  A  mother- 
less girl  had  been  his  prey  !  Ruin  and  disgrace  were 
the  penalty  she  had  to  pay. 

The  village  was  shocked  and  scandalized.     Parents 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  195 

forbade  their  children  to  play  with  the  little  Rathbone 
girls. 

We  kept  Tim  in  ignorance,  and  brave  little  mother 
faced  the  storm  of  indignation  and  was  a  mother  to  the 
motherless  girl  in  disgrace. 

The  afternoon  before  I  was  to  leave,  as  my  extended 
holiday  was  nearly  over,  I  was  reading  to  Tim  under 
the  old  maples,  wondering  how  the  sad  news  could  be 
broken  to  him. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  me.  '  Minza,  tell  me,'  he  said, 
'  what  has  been  going  on  lately,  and  why  is  Zella  not 
with  me  more?  She  is  not  always  at  home,  and  now 
she  is  here  I  scarcely  hear  anything  of  her.' 

I  held  my  breath,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say. 

Just  then  an  infant's  wail  was  heard  from  our  house 
across  the  street.  His  blind  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  me. 

'  Tell  me,  Minza,  tell  me — don't  take  advantage  of 
Tim  because  he  is  blind  ! — is  it  your  child  ? ' 

'No,  Tim,'  I  replied  huskily,  'it's  only  a  little 
stranger. ' 

'  Poor  little  thing,  poor  little  thing  ! '  he  murmured. 
'  And  how  did  it  come  to  your  house  ?  ' 

'  Zella— brought— it— it ' 

'What ! '  he  broke  in,  jumping  to  his  feet  and  his 
face  flashing  as  if  he  grasped  the  whole  truth.  '  What !' 
he  repeated. 

'  My  Zella — oh,  I  suspected  that  you  were  hiding 
something  from  me  !  My  God  !  don't  tell  me  it's  true. 
My  little  Zella  ! '  and  he  fell  back  into  his  chair  still 
calling  for  Zella. 

A  pale  face  stood  at  the  door.     It  was  Zella. 


196  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

'  Father,  father ! '  she  called,  sobbing  bitterly, 
'  don't !  Zella  has  come  home  to  stay  for  ever.' 

'  Yes,  but  that  scoundrel !  Will  he  escape  all 
punishment?  I'll ' 

'Tim,  Tim,'  I  said,  trying  to  soothe  him,  '  you  are 
blind.' 

'  Yes,  I  was  blind.  If  I  had  only  known  !  Better 
to  have  starved  than  this  !  Yes,  I  am  helpless,  I  am 
blind.' 

'  Tim,  I  must  command, '  I  said ;  '  you  are  not 
strong  enough  to  work  yourself  into  such  a  passion.' 

'Work  myself! '  he  moaned.  '  My  God  !  will  my 
retribution  never  end  ?  Oh,  Zell,  Zell,  my  little  girl, 
my  motherless  daughter  !  Your  blind  father  is  such  a 
burden  and  so  helpless,  but  lie  loves  his  little  girls.' 

Just  then  a  radiant  smile  of  love  overspread  that 
face,  the  calm  after  the  storm,  and  I  left  father  and 
daughter  sobbing  together. 

The  next  day,  when  I  went  to  bid  Tim  good-bye,  I 
found  him  in  his  usual  place  with  the  tiny  infant  in  his 
arms.  I  could  hardly  repress  my  feelings  as  I  kissed 
him. 

'You  will  come  back,  won't  you,  Minza  ? '  he 
pleaded,  and  his  sightless  blue  eyes  glistened.  '  You 
will  come  back,  I  know  you  will.' 

I  kissed  the  unconscious  baby  and  left  him. 

'  Mother,  I  cannot  help  it,  my  heart  is  breaking  ! 
Would  it  be  right  ? — dare  I  love  him  ? '  I  sobbed.  How 
good  it  seemed  to  confide  in  mother  ! 

'  But,  my  dear,  there's  Bob.  You  do  not  know.  Be 
brave,  my  girl,  and  be  true  to  your  vows.' 


A  STORY   OP   A   PRIMA   DONNA. 

'Yes,  yes  !  But  surely  he  would  have  come  •  efore 
this,  if  he  were  alive  ?' 

'  But  we  cannot  tell ;  wait  and  see.' 

The  old  heartache  came  back.  In  the  zenith  of 
fame,  the  music  of  my  life  was  still  in  a  Minor  Key. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

WHEN  I  returned  to  Chicago  I  had  quite  made  up  my 
mind  that  my  duty  as  a  daughter  was  paramount  to 
my  career  as  a  prima  donna. 

'  It  must  by  my  farewell  tour, '  I  said  firmly  to 
Howard. 

'  But,  Helvy,  they  will  laugh  and  make  sport  of 
you.  The  newspapers  will  take  it  up  as  a  joke.' 

'  I  do  not  care,'  I  said  defiantly.  'I  owe  a  duty 
to  my '  I  stopped  suddenly. 

'  To  whom  ?'  he  asked,  growing  interested. 

'  My  parents,'  I  replied. 

'  Why,  Helvy,  you  never  told  me  about  them. 
Now,  put  aside  that  nonsense  and  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shines.  It  is  for  your  interest  as  well  as ' 

'No,'  I  broke  in.  'I  must  retire.  Blood  is 
thicker  than  salaries.  Besides,  the  conductor's  baton 
has  become  to  me  a  black  demon.  I  walk,  move,  and 
breathe  under  its  magic  spell  on  the  stage  and  forget 
my  duty  as  a  daughter.' 

'  But  the  worst  is  now  over.  We  could  give  con- 
cert tours.' 

'  Yes ;  but,  as  in  the  opera,  one  false  move,  one 
breath  wrong,  and  the  orchestra  are  chasing  away 

(198) 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  199 

with  the  thread  of  harmony  snapped.  The  flash  of 
the  wand  has  become  so  irksome  to  me  that  I  fear  I 
shall  lose  my  mind  if  I  continue. ' 

'Oh,  no — tut,  tut,'  he  said  sympathetically.  'You 
need  rest,  then  you  will  be  all  right.  I  had  arranged 
for  four  seasons  ahead.' 

The  stage  had  suddenly  grown  repulsive  to  me. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  dressing-room  was  oppressive, 
with  its  dark  make-up  for  Carmen ;  the  white  bottles 
and  blonde  braided  wigs  for  Elsa  and  Marguerite  ;  they 
all  seemed  like  heavy  armor  to  a  worn  and  weary 
knight.  Besides,  the  recent  events  at  home  had 
unsettled  me.  Mother  and  father  were  growing  old, 
and  I  felt  that  I  owed  a  duty  to  them,  and  ought  to 
give  up  my  selfish  ambitions.  I  tried  to  get  them  to 
accompany  me. 

'  No,  Minza,  we  used  to  do  it  when  you  and  mother 
gave  your  concerts,  but  we  are  too  old  now,'  said 
father. 

I  thought  that  my  determination  was  fixed  when 
we  started  on  that  farewell  tour  and  I  bade  farewell  to 
the  old  familiar  scenes  in  the  opera  houses  we  visited. 
But  we  had  not  been  out  many  weeks  before  that 
determination  was  changed.  My  old  rival,  Almster, 
was  making  a  tour  of  America  in  light  opera.  She 
was  having  good  success,  had  had  her  diamonds  stolen, 
had  been  married  several  times,  and  the  newspapers 
bristled  with  spicy  items  about  her. 

Howard  had  evidently  been  studying  womankind, 
and  kept  me  thoroughly  posted.  It  was  irritating, 
and  yet  I  wanted  to  read  it.  One  day,  as  if  in  triumph, 
he  brought  me  a  paper.  '  Read  that ! '  he  shouted. 


200  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

It  was  an  interview  with  Almster,  giving  her 
opinion  of  Madame  Helvina,  and  it  was  not  a  very 
flattering  one  either. 

She  stated : 

'  Poor  Helvina  is  now  on  her  farewell  tour.  She 
is  nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  and  a  grandmother.  She 
bears  her  age  remarkably  well,  but  her  voice  is  not 
what  it  has  been;  even  prima  donnas  must  grow  old.' 

There  was  a  sting  in  this  that  nettled  me,  and  the 
old  spirit  of  spite  and  rivalry  once  more  asserted  itself. 

1  Howard,  have  all  the  bills  changed,  and  take  off 
that  farewell  tour  line.  I  intend  to  remain  on  earth 
a  little  longer.' 

Howard  was  in  high  glee,  and  gave  me  a  brotherly 
managerial  kiss.  '  Bless  you  !  Helvy,  you're  a  trump, 
and  a  sensible  woman  after  all ! ' 

4  Well,  I've  decided,'  I  replied. 

'We'll  show  that  fussy  little  busybody  yet !' he 
said  defiantly  as  he  left. 

Just  then  it  flashed  upon  me  that  Howard  was  the 
author  of  that  interview.  But  I  could  not  change  my 
mind  again. 

During  my  entire  stage  career  I  had  always  made 
a  practice  of  attending  church  on  Sunday  morning,  if 
possible,  and  had  hitherto  always  received  comfort 
and  help  from  the  service  ;  I  often  worshipped,  quite 
unrecognized,  with  members  of  my  audience  of  the 
night  previous. 

In  one  city,  the  minister  somehow  discovered  that 
I  would  be  among  his  congregation.  The  hymns  were 
old  favorites  of  mine,  and  carried  me  back  to  that 
little  Methodist  church  in  Iowa.  I  was  a  trifle 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  2OI 

drowsy,  and  did  not  listen  particularly  to  the  text,  but 
I  was  soon  quite  aroused  by  the  most  blatant,  ignorant, 
and  cruel  raillery  against  opera  singers  and  stage 
people  that  I  had  ever  heard. 

'  They  are  enemies  of  Christ,  and  agents  of  the 
devil,'  he  shouted,  pounding  the  desk,  and  looking 
about  as  if  to  catch  the  eye  of  his  victim.  My  heart 
was  in  my  mouth,  but  I  tried  to  look  unconcerned. 
'  They  ensnare  the  young  with  insidious  temptations, 
and  are  stepping-stones  to  the  worst  species  of  infamy 
and  vice.'  Once  more  he  turned  in  my  direction,  but 
did  not  seem  to  recognize  me.  Blessed  blonde  wig ! 
No  one  knew  me,  although  his  remarks  were  person- 
ally directed  against  Madame  Helvina. 

The  prima  donna  was  not  converted,  and  his  con- 
gregation did  not  look  altogether  pleased,  but  they 
dared  not  talk  back. 

This  was  his  message  of  love !  I  believe  that  those 
who  did  not  go  to  operas  as  a  rule  were  present  the 
following  nights  to  see  for  themselves  how  the  devil 
acted  on  state  occasions.  The  newspapers  took  the 
matter  up,  and  scorched  the  poor  minister  until,  I 
confess,  I  felt  sorry  for  him. 

'  Ah,  that  sermon  was  a  clever  hit,'  said  Howard, 
rubbing  his  hands.  '  Standing  room  only  for  six 
successive  nights,  thanks  to  the  reverend  spouter.' 

'  Perhaps  he  has  never  been  in  an  opera  house, 
Howard. ' 

'Well,  I'll  send  him  a  ticket.  Helvy,  you're  a 
brick.  This  season  has  been  a  corker — the  best  we've 
ever  had.' 

The  chorus  girls  were  indignant,  and  pouted  their 


202  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

pretty  painted  lips  in  talking  of  the  sermon.  My  life's 
aim  had  always  been  to  keep  my  character  pure  and 
wholesome.  There  may  be  black  spots  in  my  profes- 
sion, as  there  are  in  others,  but  evil  will  never  be 
remedied  by  raillery  and  abuse. 

Soon  after  this  I  received  a  letter  from  a  firm  ot 
lawyers  in  Chicago,  stating  that,  if  I  made  affidavits 
affirming  specific  knowledge  of  the  death  of  Robert 
Burnette,  they  would  secure  the  insurance  money  due 
on  his  life. 

The  name  of  the  firm  was  Connor  and  Cogswell, 
and  Hal  had  evidently  been  metamorphosed  into  a 
lawyer.  I  remembered  his  remarks  on  previous  occa- 
sions, and  wondered  if  he  knew  the  real  truth.  Would 
my  real  history  be  revealed  to  the  world  ? 

I  wrote,  stating  that  I  held  no  proofs  of  my 
husband's  death,  and  signed  for  the  first  time  in  many 
years  my  real  name,  'Minza  Burnette.' 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

WHAT  secrets  and  joys  the  telegraph  operators  could 
reveal  if  they  fully  realized  the  meaning  of  the  dots 
and  dashes  as  they  flash  from  their  fingers  !  The 
messages  of  lightning  in  these  days  form  great  links 
in  human  destiny. 

In  the  midst  of  our  triumphal  tour  on  the  Pacific 
coast,  when  there  appeared  to  be  a  rift  in  the  clouds  of 
my  life,  I  received  a  telegram: — 

'  Father  is  very  ill.     Come  quickly. — Mother.' 

All  my  dates  were  cancelled,  and  the  suspense  of 
that  journey  home  I  can  never  forget.  The  surging 
crowds  in  a  railway  train  seldom  think  of  the  various 
emotions  mingled  with  its  roar,  and  the  heavy  hearts 
reflected  in  the  sad  eyes  steeped  in  tears.  Should  I 
reach  home  for  a  last  look  ?  Perhaps  it  was  not  so 
bad,  after  all. 

All  was  still  and  quiet  about  the  house  as  I  entered 
— not  a  sound. 

'  Father,  father  ! '  I  cried. 

My  only  answer  was  mother's  sobs  as  she  met  me, 
and  her  weeping  eyes  first  told  the  story. 

'  Minza,  he  is  dead,'  she  said  betweer  her  sobs. 

Dead  !     My  heart  rebelled  against  God. 
(203) 


204  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

I  went  into  the  darkened  room  and  kissed  that  cold 
face.  The  faces  of  Tod  and  baby  Joe  looked  down 
upon  me  in  that  dear  old  parlor — the  room  of  the 
dead.  Brother  Jim  was  there;  and  so  strong  and 
manly  !  The  great  bereavement  had  made  the  boy  a 
man  at  once. 

At  the  funeral,  when  the  soft  notes  of  '  Just  as  I 
Am,  Without  One  Plea,'  father's  favorite  hymn,  burst 
forth,  I  completely  broke  down.  The  weak,  tremb- 
ling, and  aged  voice  of  the  minister,  dear  old  Mr. 
Frazer,  tried  to  console  our  grief-stricken  hearts. 

The  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  the  Masons  in 
their  regalia  and  white  gloves,  gathered  to  do  honor 
to  a  dead  comrade.  The  last  said  rites  were  over,  and 
never  will  the  soft  minor  refrain  of  Pleyel's  hymn, 
sung  by  the  Masons  in  a  husky  voice  as  they  marched 
round  the  grave,  fade  from  my  memory.  The  final 
burial  salute  was  fired  by  the  old  army  comrades. 

'  Farewell,  father,  farewell!'  I  cried,  as  the  smoke 
of  the  volley  rolled  away. 

Who  does  not  remember  that  vacant  place  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  that  empty  chair  at  the  fireside,  that 
absent  voice  ? 

'  Mother,  we  must  go  away  to-morrow, '  I  said,  a 
few  days  after  the  funeral. 

'  My  dear,  I  am  too  old  ;  don't  tear  me  away  from 
my  loved  ones.  While  I  live  I  want  to  be  near  my 
boy  sand  Robert.' 

'  But,  mother,  you  have  the  living  to  look  after. 
Jim  is  going  to  finish  at  college,  and  you  must  go  with 
me. 

'  O  Minza  !  let  us  give  up  the  struggle  for  ambition 


A  STORY  OF  A   PRIMA   DONNA.  2OJ 

that  I  taught  you,  and  live  with  our  dead.  You  do 
not  know  how  I  loved  your  father.  My  heart  is — is 
'  She  quite  broke  down. 

'  Yes  ;  but,  mother,  we  must  face  life  as  it  is. ' 

'  My  brave  daughter,  you  seem  determined.  Do 
as  you  think  best.' 

It  was  indeed  affecting  when  we  closed  the  old 
home  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door.  The  old  maples 
sighed ;  the  hammock  swung  sadly  under  the  ever- 
greens ;  it  was  autumn  again. 

A  last  glance  at  the  window  across  the  way,  and  I 
saw  Zella  standing  by  her  father's  side.  Poor  blind 
Tim  could  not  see  us,  but  his  hand  waved  a  farewell ; 
and  we  began  life  over  again — mother  and  I. 

It  was  scarcely  six  months  after  we  left  the  old 
home  when  I  noticed  mother  was  failing,  but  I  felt  no 
serious  alarm,  as  she  did  not  complain. 

One  night,    when  I  had  returned  rather  late  from 
the  opera,  she   fell   in  a   faint.     A  doctor  was  called, 
but  still  I  felt  no  particular  anxiety,  as  I  had  nursed 
her  through  these  faints  many  times  before.     But,  as 
the    unconsciousness     continued,    the     doctor's  face 
became  very  grave.     Suddenly  the  sleeper  awoke,  and 
began  singing  in  a  weak,  trembling  voice, 
'  There  is  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day, 
And  by  faith  we  can  see  it  afar.' 

'  Mother,  mother,'  I  broke  in,  'you  must  not  exert 
yourself  so  much.' 

There  was  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes,  and  again 
she  became  drowsy  and  unconscious. 

'  O,  doctor,  doctor  !  do  something — do  something  J 
to  help  her, '  I  pleaded. 


2O6  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

Howard  was  called  and  the  breath  came  faster  and 
faster.  The  livid  lips  turned  purple,  and  responded 
but  feebl)'  to  my  impulsive  kiss.  She  looked  so  plead- 
ingly into  my  face  with  those  deep  blue  eyes  as  the 
death-light  glowed  in  them  ! 

'She  is  dying!'  I  cried.'  'Mother,  mother,  don't 
leave  Minza.  Oh,  doctor,  she  must  not  die,  she  must 
not  die ! ' 

'  We  can  do  nothing  now, '  he  replied  gently. 

'  Good-bye,  Minza, '  she  said  almost  in  a  whisper, 
as  I  bent  over  her  to  catch  the  words.  '  Good-bye, 
my  child  ;  remember — remember ' 

Again  she  sang  in  a  feebler  voice, 

'  There  is  a  land ' 

The  line  was  never  finished  ;  a  deep  breath,  and  I  was 
motherless.  A  clock  in  the  distance  struck  three,  as  a 
knell  for  the  dead. 

I  was  stunned  and  bewildered,  and  Howard  se  emed 
cruel  in  coming  to  me  for  directions.  They  kept  me 
away  from  my  dead.  No  sleep  could  I  bring  to  my 
eyes ;  even  tears  would  not  flow  ;  and  hour  by  hour 
the  terrible  realization  grew  upon  me — mother  was 
gone. 

Preparations  were  made  to  take  her  remains  home 
the  following  day,  and  the  night  before,  I  stole  into  the 
room  of  the  dead;  the  wearied  watcher  having  fallen 
asleep  in  an  adjoining  corridor. 

The  flickering  shadows  of  the  lowered  gas  seemed 
to  give  life  to  the  sleeping  face,  but  when  I  kissed  her 
ice-cold  lips  the  truth  came  to  me — I  was  alone  with 
mother,  but  she  was  dead,  and  I  had  torn  her  from 
her  home! 


A   STORY   OF   A   PRIMA   DONNA.  207 

All  at  once  the  tension  in  my  brain  gave  way,  and 
I  felt  that  I  was  mad.  Let  them  bury  two  bodies  in 
that  little  Iowa  cemetery,  and  let  me  sleep  with 
mother.  I  would  end  my  existence.  On  the  mantel- 
piece I  saw  several  bottles  labelled  '  Poison, '  which 
had  been  left  by  the  undertaker.  Surely  one  would 
serve  my  purpose  ?  I  held  up  one  of  them  to  the  first 
streak  of  dawn  as  it  pierced  the  closed  shutters,  when 
the  door  opened  softly  and  Howard  came  in.  He 
started  when  he  saw  me. 

'  Helvy,  Helvy,  what  are  you  doing  here?'  he 
said. 

I  shrank  back. 

'  I,  too,  grew  to  love  her  as  mother  ;  let  me  grieve 
with  you.  But  what's  this?'  he  said  quickly,  taking 
the  bottle  out  of  my  hand. 

'  O  Howard!  I  cannot  live  now;  let  me  die,'  I 
pleaded. 

'  Die  !  Live,  Helvy,  live  !  What  would  she  say  ?' 
he  said,  pointing  to  her  peaceful  form. 

He  had  touched  the  right  cord,  and  tears  came  to 
my  relief. 

'She  in  an  angel  now,  Helvy,'  he  continued, 
'  and  I  never  knew  a  mother's  love — was  always  alone.' 

His  words  touched  me,  and  we  wept  together. 

Even  now  I  dare  not  linger  over  memories  of 
mother's  funeral.  It  seems  to  tear  my  very  soul  and 
threaten  my  reason. 

Jim  had  only  been  married  a  few  weeks  and  was 
there  with  his  pretty  wife,  but  they  were  wrapped  up 
in  each  other,  which  made  me  feel  my  bitter  loneliness 


2O8  ,        THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

more  keenly.  Even  in  the  great  hour  of  grief,  brother 
and  sister  seemed  to  have  drifted  apart. 

My  future  was  a  blank.  I  felt  as  though  I  could 
not  tear  myself  away  from  that  new-made  grave,  and 
the  holy  benediction  of  my  mother's  love  which  hung 
over  it. 

Here  some  day  I  too  will  lie,  to  complete  the 
broken  arc  of  the  family  circle. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ON  my  return  from  one  of  these  visits  to  the  cemetery 
I  found  Hal  Cogswell  waiting  for  me  at  the  gate. 

'  Madame  Helvina,  I  am  so  sorry,  so  sorry  for  you!' 
and  tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  '  Our  mothers  are  the 
best  friends  we  have,  after  all.' 

My  only  answer  was  a  sob. 

'  I  have  known  the  secret  of  your  life,  Madame 
Helvina,  since  we  met  in  Europe ;  and  your  kindness 
to  me  made  me  *esolve  to  help  you,  and  I've  found 
him.' 

'  Who?'  I  asked  listlessly. 

'Why,  Bob  Burnette,'  he  replied. 

I  shivered. 

'  Don't  you  want  to  hear  of  your  hus 

'My  husband  !'  I  moaned. 

When  we  were  in  the  house  he  told  me  the  story. 

In  a  secluded  mad-house  in  Germany,  Hal  believed 
he  had  found  poor  Bob. 

'  Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it,  Madame  Helvina.  I 
came  upon  it  quite  accidentally  while  reading  an  official 
report  of  the  patients.  This  poor  fellow  was  found 
near  a  collapsed  balloon,  a  raving  maniac.  Although 

(200) 


210  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

he  mumbles  in  German,  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind 
that  he  is  your  husband.' 

'  Yes,  but  how  do  you  know  ?'  I  inquired,  growing 
interested. 

'  Because  the  keepers  told  me  he  constantly  repeats 
one  name,  "  Minza,  Minza,"  and  talks  of  balloons.' 

My  poor  Bob  ! 

'  And  is  there  any  hope  ?' 

'  No,  I  am  afraid  not ;  but  if  you  will  allow  me  I 
will  secure  the  necessary  papers,  and  bring  him  home.' 

'  My  duty  as  a  wife  demands  it,  and  I  feel  you  are 
a  friend,  Hal.' 

I  decided  there  and  then  that  he  should  be  furnished 
with  funds  and  should  fetch  my  mad  husband  home  to 
me. 

'  Will  you  go  with  me  to  see  a  blind  friend  ?'  I  said 
after  we  had  finished  our  talk. 

'  With  pleasure, '  he  said  enthusiastically. 

We  went  across  the  street,  and  he  took  poor  Tim's 
hands  and  spoke  very  tenderly  of  his  affliction. 

'  Well,  it's  worth  losing  your  eyes  to  have  such  a 
friend  as  Madame ' 

I  hushed  him.      '  My  name  is  Minza,'  I  whispered. 

'  Yes,  Minza, '  he  echoed. 

Just  then  Zella  came  out.  I  had  heard  of  love  at 
first  sight,  and  surely  it  was  before  me  ! 

'Zella,  Zella,  you  here  !'  said  Hal,  going  towards 
her  to  shake  hands. 

*  This  is  my  home,  Hal,  and  this  is  my  father, '  she 
responded,  pointing  to  Tim. 

Evidently  they  were  acquainted ;  it  was  not  love 
at  first  sight,  after  all. 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIMA  DONNA.  211 

They  soon  forgot  Tim  and  me.  After  a  time  Zella 
left  Hal's  side  and  beckoned  me  to  come  with  her  into 
the  house,  leaving  Hal  with  Tim. 

'  He  must  know  the  truth.  Will  you  tell  him?' 
she  asked  me. 

'  Why,  dear  ?  He  hasn't  asked  you  to  marry  him, 
has  he  ?' 

'No,  but — but — he  might,'  she  said,  blushing. 
'  And — and — he  must  know  all.  We  met  when  I  first 
went  to  the  city,  before — before '  she  said,  sobbing. 

'  But  your  secret  is  buried  in  that  tiny  grave  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  know  ;  but  he  must  and  shall  be  told  if  I 
have  to  tell  him  myself.' 

That  evening  I  told  Hal  the  sad  story,  expecting 
that  it  would  end  all  between  them,  and  watched  his 
face  closely  for  a  response. 

'  Madame  Helvina,  that  girl  shall  be  my  wife.  I 
wondered  what  was  on  her  mind  this  afternoon.  Ever 
since  we  first  met  she  has  been  my  cherished  sweet- 
heart. I  thank  you,  Madame  Helvina,  for  telling  me 
the  truth  ;  it  has  made  me  deeper  in  love  than  ever.' 

Hal  left  on  his  mission,  and  I  returned  to  Howard 
to  complete  my  broken  engagements  and  continue  my 
operatic  career. 

After  mother's  death,  Howard  was  specially  kind 
and  thoughtful  of  me  !  As  a  man,  he  never  seemed 
so  great  to  me  before.  More  fresh  traits  in  his  character 
showed  themselves  in  those  few  days  of  grief  and 
sorrow  than  in  all  the  previous  years  of  our  acquaint- 
ance. He  was  so  patient  with  me  in  all  my  whims, 


212  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

and  so  tender  in  alluding  to  dear  mother,  and  even 
wore  her  sweet  likeness  on  the  inside  cover  of  his 
watch. 

'  Now,  Helvy,  I  will  not  bother  you  any  more  with 
love  pleadings ;  I  am  simply  your  manager,  and  you 
are  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  had  to  obey — or  ever 
will,  and  when  my  dear  says  the  word  we  will  be 
married. ' 

'But,  Howard,  you  do  not  understand.  It  can 
never  be.  I'm — I'm — married!' 

'What  ?'  he  exclaimed,  his  face  paling.  'And 
not  let  me  know  ?  Oh,  Helvy,  Helvy,  how  could  you?' 

'  Howard,  I  was  married  before  I  knew  you,'  I 
replied,  and  I  told  him  the  story  of  poor  Bob. 

'  Brave  little  woman  !'  he  exclaimed  when  I  had 
finished.  'And  that  young  rascal  of  a  Hal  has  gone 
to  bring  you  back  an  insane  husband  1  But,  Helvy, 
you  know  his  insanity  releases  you.' 

'  Legally,  it  may,  but  morally,  it  does  not.  Howard, 
I  am  a  wife.' 

'  I  respect  your  convictions ;  but,  Helvy,  you  are 
wearing  yourself  out  with  needless  troubles.  You 
have  enough  real  grief  without  adding  to  it.  Let  me 
— let  me ' 

'  The  standing  offer,  Howard,'  I  broke  in,  trying  to 
smile. 

'  Now  that  I  know  the  real  truth,  I  think  i  can 
be  a  better  friend,  although  I  may  never  be  your  hus- 
band.' 

'We'll  seal  the  compact,'  I  said,  taking  both  his 
hands  in  mine,  and  we  stood  looking  into  eacli  ether's 
eyes,  as  we  had  never  looked  before. 


A  STORY  OF  A  PRIM  A   DONNA.  213 

Some  months  afterwards  I  received  the  first  letter 
from  Hal : 

'  I  swore  I  would  not  write  to  you  until  my  mission 
was  accomplished, '  he  wrote.  '  You  have  no  idea  of 
the  Governmental  red  tape  to  be  gone  through  to 
extradite  an  insane  man'.  They  want  his  pedigree 
back  several  generations,  and  yours  as  well.  I  fixed 
one  up  for  you,  with  dates  and  ancestors  that  may 
surprise  you,  but  you  will  have  to  swear  to  it  all  now, 
or  I  shall  be  in  a  pickle.  We  sail  on  the  i6th  inst. 
I  have  visited  your  husband  several  times,  and  the 
poor  fellow  keeps  on  moaning  ' '  Minza,  Minza, ' '  so 
plaintively.' 

I  had  made  arrangements  with  a  private  asylum  in 
Iowa  for  my  husband's  safe  keeping,  and  could 
scarcely  await  the  time  for  his  arrival. 

We  were  to  take  a  holiday — Howard  and  I — a 
holiday  to  meet  my  mad  husband. 

On  the  day  the  steamer  arrived  in  New  York,  Hal 
telegraphed  to  us  when  to  meet  them  at  the  station  in 
the  little  Iowa  town  where  the  asylum  was  situated. 
They  did  not  arrive  in  the  train  we  had  expected 
them  by,  and  we  returned  to  the  hotel  feeling  some- 
what anxious. 

An  hour  later  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of  my 
room.  It  was  Hal,  who  appeared  unannounced,  as 
handsome  and  enthusiastic  as  ever. 

'  We  are  here,'  he  whispered.  'Be  brave,  Madame 
Helvina,  be  brave.' 

The  suspense  was  at  an  end,  and  I  was  to  meet 
my  lost  husband. 

He  was  then  in  a  room  at  that  very  hotel.     Two 


214  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

stalwart  Germans  stood  outside  in  the  dark  corridor 
as  I  approached  with  Hal  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
room. 

There  he  was,  crouching  in  the  corner,  eating  his 
dinner  like  a  wild  beast.  This  my  husband  !  His  mad 
eyes  looked  up — a  strange,  unfamiliar  look  it  was. 
What  a  greeting  for  man  and  wife  after  twelve  years' 
parting  !  He  rose  to  his  feet.  How  tall  and  tower- 
ing he  seemed  as  the  light  from  the  little  window 
shone  full  on  his  face  ! 

'My  God  ! '  I  shrieked. 

I  could  not  be  mistaken.     It  was  not  Bob. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

HOWARD  and  Hal  rushed  into  the  room  at  my  shriek, 
fearing  that  something  had  happened. 

I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  happy  or  sad,  but 
Hal  was  quite  crushed.  After  so  much  expense  and 
work,  the  madman  proved  to  be  the  wrong  man;  but 
Howard  looked  relieved.  The  only  explanation  we 
could  offer  was  that  this  poor  madman  was  Bob's  com- 
panion, and  that  it  was  the  name  of  the  ill-fated 
balloon  which  he  moaned  so  continuously.  But  where, 
then,  was  Bob  ?  I  was  still  to  be  left  in  uncertainty, 
and  the  unfortunate  man  was  taken  back  to  Germany. 

I  tried  to  console  Hal  in  his  disappointment,  but 
he  was  morbid,  and  soon  after  left  us  rather  suddenly, 
leaving  no  address. 

I  was  considerably  surprised,  therefore,  to  receive 
the  following  note  some  weeks  after: — 

'  Dear  Madame  Helvina:  — Will  you  and  Mr. 
Wittaker  attend  our  wedding? — Smithville,  Dec.  i6th 
— Zella  and  I. 

'HAL.' 

It  was  an  abrupt  wedding  invitation,  unique  in  its 
way,  and  altogether  a  surprise. 

(315) 


2l6  THE  MINOR  CHORt). 

Howard  and  I  made  arrangements  to  go,  taking 
Mrs.  Campbell  with  us. 

When  we  arrived  home  I  insisted  on  driving  at 
once  to  mother's  grave.  The  four  mounds  looked 
very  peaceful  under  a  mantle  of  pure  white  snow. 
That  cemetery  was  sacred  ground  to  me. 

Tears  I  Oh,  how  I  wish  there  were  some  other 
way  to  express  grief !  I  am  tired  of  tears,  but  still 
they  are  the  great  expression  of  sorrow  which  divides 
humanity  from  the  brute  creation. 

I  gave  a  lingering  look  as  we  left  that  little  city  oi 
the  dead. 

'  Helvy,  you  are  wearing  yourself  away,  brooding 
so  continually  over  death.  You  must  think  more  oi 
life, '  said  Howard  as  we  left. 

'  How  can  I  ? '  I  echoed.  '  My  life  is  attuned  to 
the  Minor  Chord  of  Death  and  Grief. ' 

'Oh,  that's  superstitious,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs. 
Campbell.  'Howard  is  quite  right,  you  must  arouse 
yourself  to  real  life  again. ' 

There  was  something  refreshing  and  stimulating  in 
meeting  those  two  young  lovers  who  were  so  soon  to 
be  man  and  wife.  Their  happiness  was  infectious. 
Zella  was  prettier  than  ever.  The  dead  past  had  been 
buried. 

Tim  was  happy,  and  cheerfully  announced  :  'You 
see,  Minza,  I  give  up  my  daughter,  but  I  get  back  a 
son.  And  oh,  Minza,  they  are  so  happy,  together  ;  it 
quite  reminds  me  of  our ' 

'Hush,  now,  you  should  not  be  telling  secrets,'  I 
said  hastily. 


A  STORY   OF  A   PRIMA  DONNA.  217 

Howard  had  heard  it,  and  naturally  put  two  and 
two  together. 

'  And  so  you  two  were  lovers  in  days  gone  by  ?  ' 
he  inquired. 

'  In  a  way,'  I  answered,  trying  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. '  By  the  way,  have  you  seen  to  the  minister's 
carriage  and  the  flowers,  Howard  ?  ' 

'I  think  so — or  Mrs.  Campbell  has.' 

The  two  younger  girls,  Helen  and  Jessie,  had  come 
home  from  the  Music  College  they  were  attending  for 
the  wedding,  which  was  to  take  place  that  evening. 
The  service  was  short  and  simple.  Hal  and  Zella 
stood  beneath  a  bower  of  flowers  close  to  Tim.  The 
bride  in  her  beauty  reminded  me  of  Angela — sister  of 
my  childhood — and  it  brought  tears  to  my  eyes  to 
think  that  poor  blind  Tim  could  not  see  his  sweet-faced 
child.  The  bridegroom  seemed  to  realize  the  solem- 
nity of  the  occasion,  and  repeated  his  responses  several 
times,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  he  was  being 
married  in  earnest ;  he  nearly  upset  our  gravity. 

After  the  final  words  had  been  spoken,  I  was  more 
cheerful  ;  I  began  to  feel  that  life  was  not  so  gloomy, 
after  all,  and  I  played  the  Wedding  March  from 
'  Lohengrin. '  What  a  happy  feast  was  that  wedding 
supper ! 

Tim  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  Zella 
and  Hal  on  one  side,  and  myself  and  Howard  on  the 
other.  It  touched  us  all  to  see  how  tenderly  the  bride 
waited  on  and  anticipated  every  want  of  her  blind 
father,  and  to  think  that  possibly  it  was  our  last  meal 
together. 

The  young  couple  left  for  their  new  home  in  Chi- 


218  THE   MINOR   CHORD. 

cago,  where  Hal  persisted  in  calling  himself  a  lawyer. 
Mrs.  Campbell  had  taken  charge  of  all  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  wedding  in  her  kind,  motherly  way,  and 
as  she  was  growing  old,  and  the  incessant  traveling 
was  telling  upon  her,  she  decided  to  remain  at  my  old 
home  at  Smithville,  and  look  after  Tim  and  his 
girls. 

'  Dear  auntie, '  I  said  fondly,  kissing  her,  '  how  can 
I  ever  thank  you  ?  ' 

'  Dinna  try  it,  my  bairn, '  she  answered,  adding 
with  a  twinkle  :  '  You  will  not  need  me  always. ' 

'  Yes,  I  shall, '  I  insisted. 

'  Well,  well,  we  shall  see, '  she  replied,  as  she  left 
the  room.  But  she  had  her  own  way. 

'Now  that  was  a  pretty  little  wedding,'  said 
Howard  as  we  went  home  together.  '  Wasn't  it 
Helvy?  And  it  put  another  idea  into  my  head.' 

'What  is  that  ?  '  I  asked  with  a  yawn. 

'You  would  look  so  charming  going  through  the 

same  ceremony,   with ' 

'  But,    Howard,  how  can  you  ask  me  when '  I 

broke  in. 

'  My  dear,  I  must  insist ;  you  are  unreasonable. 
There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  Bob  is  either  insane 
or  dead,  and  you  are  free  to  marry  anybody  you  like 
— even  me,  for  instance.' 

4  Howard,  I  have  a  conscience'    I  said. 

1  Yes,  and  I  have  a  love  which- ' 

'Howard,  you  are  forgetting  our  compact.' 

'  Bother  the  compact !  I  was  a  fool  to  make  it ;  you 
keep  me  at  arm's  length,  and  only  use  me  as  a  business 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  2X9 

machine.  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  it  much  longer.  If 
you  only  loved ' 

'  Howard,  I  do  love  you,  if  I  know  what  love  is, 

but  duty '  I  said,  going  toward  him  and  placing 

my  hands  on  his  shoulder. 

The  confession  seemed  to  electrify  him — and  it 
relieved  me. 

'  You  mean  it  ?'  he  exclaimed. 

'  Yes,  but  we  cannot  marry  !  My  life  echoes  from 
a  Minor  Chord  !  I  am  a  wife  until  I  am  proved  to  be 
a  widow.' 

We  said  '  Good-night'  rather  soberly  for  lovers,  but 
we  perfectly  understood  one  another. 

That  night  I  dreamed  I  was  singing  in  the  heavenly 
choir.  The  harps  and  the  lyres  thrummed  out  in 
delicious  harmony,  and  there  was  no  need  for  a  con- 
ductor's baton.  Each  one  sang  of  his  own  life. 
Some  were  light  and  merry  ;  others  were  sad  and 
mournful,  and  sang  in  plaintive  tones.  The  last 
chord  always  sealed  the  fate  of  the  singer — the  vigor- 
ous major  resounded  a  reward  of  peace,  joy,  and  hap- 
piness ;  the  weird  minor  echoed  grief,  pain,  and 
sorrow. 

My  turn  had  come.  What  would  that  chord  strike? 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MY  dream  had  affected  me  very  much,  and  it  haunted 
me  all  the  next  day. 

Howard  came  down  from  the  hotel  to  tell  me  that 
he  would  have  to  return  that  evening,  but  that  I  could 
remain  a  month  longer  if  I  so  desired. 

A  month  alone  without  Howard  !  It  was  a  dreary 
contemplation. 

Just  then  a  letter  was  brought  me.  It  was  from 
Arundel  Sunderland,  and  read  as  follows  : — 

'  My  dear  Madame  Helvina : — I  have  just  composed 
a  new  song,  of  which  you  are  the  heroine  and  your 
life  its  inspiration.  I  have  dedicated  it  to  you,  and 
hoping  you  will  pardon  my  seeming  presumption,  and 
that  we  may  soon  see  you  again  in  London, 
I  remain,  sincerely  your  friend, 

'  ARUNDEL. 
'  P.  S. — I  send  a  copy  of  the  song  by  this  post.' 

'  And  has  the  song  arrived  ?'  asked  Howard,  when 
he  had  read  the  letter. 

'  No  but  I'm  dying  to  hear  it, '  I  said  quite  excitedly. 

'Oh,  so  am  I,'  said  Howard  rather  sarcastically. 
'  It's  sure  to  be  good  if  its  Arundel 's.  I  fancy  I  can 

(320) 


A  STORY  OP  A  PRIM  A  DONNA.  221 

see  him  here  with  his  single  eye-glass  glaring  at  you 
like  a  one-eyed  owl.' 

I  could  not  help  smiling  a  little  at  Howard's  odd 
comparison. 

'  Well,  I  know  it  does  not  strike  a  Minor  Chord, 
anyway,'  he  went  on. 

'  How  do  you  know,  Howard  ?  '  I  asked. 

'I  do  not  know  positively,  but  I  feel  it ;  besides,  I 
am  told ' 

'Well,  here's  the  song,'  I  broke  in,  as  a  roll  was 
handed  to  me  by  Helen,  who  had  just  returned  from 
the  post. 

As  I  took  it,  my  dream  flashed  into  my  mind,  and 
connected  itself  with  the  letter  from  Arundel.  An  idea 
occurred  to  me.  I  would  let  this  decide  my  destiny. 
Turning  to  Howard,  I  said  : 

'  Howard,  the  last  chord  in  this  song  shall  tell  me 
how  my  life  is  to  continue.  If  its  last  chord  trembles 
with  the  plaintive  minor,  my  life  must  continue  as  it 
is ;  if  it  resounds  with  the  hope  and  bouyancy  of  the 
major,  I  will  do  as  you  ask  me,  and  marry  you.' 

'  Glory  be  to  the  Chord  ! '  he  exclaimed  enthusias- 
tically, embracing  me  passionately. 

'  But  remember, '  I  said,  drawing  myself  away,  '  I 
am  superstitious,  and  I  am  in  earnest.  If  that  last 
chord  is  a  minor,  my  life  must  continue  as  it  is — I  will 
never  marry.' 

'But  it  won't  be,  Helvy.  It's  a  major  blooming 
with  orange  blossoms,  you  bet ! '  he  said  confidently. 

How  little  Arundel  Sunderland  dreamed  he  was 
deciding  my  destiny  when  he  penned  that  last  chord  ! 

I  called  to  Helen  and  Jessie,  who  were  at  the  piano 


222  THE  MINOR   CHORD. 

in  the  adjoining  room,  and,  tearing  off  the  wrapper, 
handed  them  the  sheet  of  music. 

'  Girls,  will  you  play  and  sing  this  for  me  ?  I  do 
not  think  you  will  find  it  difficult, '  I  said,  kissing  them 
both. 

It  was  in  the  early  afternoon  twilight  of  a  dull 
December  day  that  my  future  life  was  determined. 

Howard  and  I  sat  without  a  light  in  the  dear  old 
parlor,  which  had  seen  so  much  of  my  grief  and  sor- 
row. The  loved  faces  of  my  lost  ones  looked  down  on 
us  from  the  walls,  and  in  the  flickering  reflection  of 
the  fire,  mother  seemed  to  smile  a  blessing. 

Howard  took  my  hands  as  the  first  soft  bass  notes  of 
the  prelude  came  from  the  next  room  under  Helen's 
delicate  touch,  which  reminded  me  of  mother's  play- 
ing. The  opening  phrase  awoke  sad  memories  of  my 
life. 

Jessie's  sweet  voice  began  softly  chanting  in 
response  to  the  weird  harmony.  Those  happy  inno- 
cent girls  little  thought  that  they  held  my  future  in  the 
balance.  The  crescendo  increased  as  the  tempo 
quickened  and  the  key  changed.  Howard  and  I  rose 
together  as  if  under  a  magic  spell.  His  face  grew 
strained  and  serious  ;  he,  too,  was  affected,  by  the 
suspense. 

Minor  strains  mingled  with  the  major  in  beautiful 
symphony,  as  if  in  benediction ;  the  climax  was 
approaching  measure  by  measure,  with  impressive 
chords,  on  to  the  high  note  in  which  all  the  accumu- 
lated passion  of  the  song  was  gathered.  They  had 
reached  the  closing  retard,  and  the  long-sustained 
tones  were  soothing  me,  until  I  remembered  my  vow. 


A   STORY   OF  A  PRIMA   DONNA.  223 

My  heart  almost  stood  still,  and  my  nerves  thrilled 
and  tingled  as  the  singer's  last  note  died  away.  Helen 
was  about  to  strike  the  last  chord 

'  O  Helen,  Helen  ! '  I  screamed. 

The  chord  was  struck ! 


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